Steven Harper's Blog, page 64
July 17, 2018
Stormy
After days of hot, muggy weather and no rain, the weather finally broke last night. Huge thunderstorms and torrential rain swept through the area last night.
Once it lifted, Darwin wanted to go to the gym, so off we went.
It was dark out, and we drove through a surreal landscape. Store lights were flickering, and passing cars threw up great gouts of water. The gym is open 24 hours, but when we arrived, we found the doors locked. A sign said they were closed due to power loss. The lights were on inside, and the sign had been printed by a computer, so they clearly had power of some kind, but all the gym's TVs were off, and some of the lights flickered.
This morning, we learned most of the businesses in that area of town were without power, which explained the eerie lighting. They're still waiting for power, too. We never even experienced a brown-out, though our power lines are buried.
Today the weather is fresh-scrubbed and clean and lovely out!
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Once it lifted, Darwin wanted to go to the gym, so off we went.
It was dark out, and we drove through a surreal landscape. Store lights were flickering, and passing cars threw up great gouts of water. The gym is open 24 hours, but when we arrived, we found the doors locked. A sign said they were closed due to power loss. The lights were on inside, and the sign had been printed by a computer, so they clearly had power of some kind, but all the gym's TVs were off, and some of the lights flickered.
This morning, we learned most of the businesses in that area of town were without power, which explained the eerie lighting. They're still waiting for power, too. We never even experienced a brown-out, though our power lines are buried.
Today the weather is fresh-scrubbed and clean and lovely out!
comments
July 12, 2018
51!
In recent events, I've gotten notice that I just sold a story to a fantasy anthology. Details will come later, but I wanted to say that this is my 51st short sale. So I've now sold one story for every year I've been alive!
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The Poison Box
Last year, a horde of yellow jackets built a nest in the upper corner of our front porch in a matter of hours. I didn't realize what was going on until I walked outside and thought I was in a cloud of flies. Then one stung me, and I saw a nest the size of a loaf of bread under the eaves. I bought some wasp poison that sprayed at a nice, long distance and destroyed the nest with it. It was quite a mess to clean up, but at least I didn't get stung again.
Fast forward to this summer.
My summer office is the front porch. I sit in the cool shade on our comfortable outdoor furniture surrounded by trees and potted plants while I write on my laptop. The end tables are a set of 100-year-old shipping crates made of oak or maple that would survive a bomb blast. I often wonder where these crates have been and what they've held. Two of the crates are open boxes, but the third has a lid on a hinge. They add a nice, rustic look to my office. This year, I added a free-standing fountain from the garden store. It's a set of interconnected pitchers done up to look like ancient Greek pouring jars, and the water runs in an endless stream from the top jar to the middle jars to the bottom. It sits on the lidded crate. I like the sound of trickling water while the mourning doves call in the distance. It's a very nice space.
A couple days ago, however, I noticed several yellow jackets buzzing around the lidded crate under the fountain. They were crawling in and out through two particular cracks. Oh, geez. I got the wasp poison and from a safe distance, sprayed into the cracks. A number of yellow jackets flew out and died and created a small killing field outside the crate, but an hour later, there were just as many of them as before.
I hate yellow jackets, for all the usual reasons. They sting without provocation, and do it repeatedly. They don't pollinate plants or do anything else useful. They're the assholes of the animal word.
I put on a sweatshirt, long pants, a hood, and gloves and slowly, carefully pulled the fountain off the lidded crate. The fountain, of course, was full of water, so this was quite a trick. The yellow jackets buzzed around, disturbed by the vibrations, but they didn't go for me. With the fountain gone, the lid was accessible. I used a broom handle to pop it open.
A cloud of yellow jackets boiled upward, and I retreated. When the damn bugs calmed down, I edged close enough to peer into the crate. Another yellow jacket nest, bigger than the previous one. It looked like an Elephant Man tumor clinging to the inside of the box.
By now, I was almost out of wasp spray, so I sent Max to the store for more. (This is what teenagers are for.) When he got back and I was fully armed and armored, I stood back and let the nasty nest have it. I emptied most of the bottle into the nest, in fact. The startled yellow jackets rushed around, trying to figure out what to do. Most of them dropped to the porch, dead or dying. I hosed the nest some more until the entire thing was saturated. No stings--the bugs didn't connect me with what was going on.
I let the thing sit for a few hours, then came out to check on it. A few survivors scraggled around the ruined nest. I sprayed them--die die die!--then smashed up the remains of the nest. It crumbled into damp fragments, revealing hundreds and hundreds of dead baby yellow jackets. They looked like giant maggots. I cleared out the chunks, hosed the box clean, and let it dry. Then I put the box back in its usual place.
Within minutes, more survivors were buzzing around the cracks, trying to get in. Seriously, dudes? I shooed them away and rearranged the furniture on the front porch. I put the fountain on the ground where the crate originally sat (better positioning anyway--I did get nervous that the fountain was too heavy to sit atop the crate) and put the crate in a different spot. The survivors buzzed around the fountain. Where was their fortress? Their queen?
But it didn't take them long to find the box in its new spot. Grousing, I opened the lid and filled it with a cloud of insecticide, creating a poison box. Then I sprayed all the cracks with more insecticide. Ha!
This morning I came out to work and found yet more survivors flitting around the porch. They don't go near the poison box, but they hang around my fountain. I have the can of insecticide with me, and whenever I see one--GOOSH!
Yellow jackets. Yeesh!
comments
Fast forward to this summer.
My summer office is the front porch. I sit in the cool shade on our comfortable outdoor furniture surrounded by trees and potted plants while I write on my laptop. The end tables are a set of 100-year-old shipping crates made of oak or maple that would survive a bomb blast. I often wonder where these crates have been and what they've held. Two of the crates are open boxes, but the third has a lid on a hinge. They add a nice, rustic look to my office. This year, I added a free-standing fountain from the garden store. It's a set of interconnected pitchers done up to look like ancient Greek pouring jars, and the water runs in an endless stream from the top jar to the middle jars to the bottom. It sits on the lidded crate. I like the sound of trickling water while the mourning doves call in the distance. It's a very nice space.
A couple days ago, however, I noticed several yellow jackets buzzing around the lidded crate under the fountain. They were crawling in and out through two particular cracks. Oh, geez. I got the wasp poison and from a safe distance, sprayed into the cracks. A number of yellow jackets flew out and died and created a small killing field outside the crate, but an hour later, there were just as many of them as before.
I hate yellow jackets, for all the usual reasons. They sting without provocation, and do it repeatedly. They don't pollinate plants or do anything else useful. They're the assholes of the animal word.
I put on a sweatshirt, long pants, a hood, and gloves and slowly, carefully pulled the fountain off the lidded crate. The fountain, of course, was full of water, so this was quite a trick. The yellow jackets buzzed around, disturbed by the vibrations, but they didn't go for me. With the fountain gone, the lid was accessible. I used a broom handle to pop it open.
A cloud of yellow jackets boiled upward, and I retreated. When the damn bugs calmed down, I edged close enough to peer into the crate. Another yellow jacket nest, bigger than the previous one. It looked like an Elephant Man tumor clinging to the inside of the box.
By now, I was almost out of wasp spray, so I sent Max to the store for more. (This is what teenagers are for.) When he got back and I was fully armed and armored, I stood back and let the nasty nest have it. I emptied most of the bottle into the nest, in fact. The startled yellow jackets rushed around, trying to figure out what to do. Most of them dropped to the porch, dead or dying. I hosed the nest some more until the entire thing was saturated. No stings--the bugs didn't connect me with what was going on.
I let the thing sit for a few hours, then came out to check on it. A few survivors scraggled around the ruined nest. I sprayed them--die die die!--then smashed up the remains of the nest. It crumbled into damp fragments, revealing hundreds and hundreds of dead baby yellow jackets. They looked like giant maggots. I cleared out the chunks, hosed the box clean, and let it dry. Then I put the box back in its usual place.
Within minutes, more survivors were buzzing around the cracks, trying to get in. Seriously, dudes? I shooed them away and rearranged the furniture on the front porch. I put the fountain on the ground where the crate originally sat (better positioning anyway--I did get nervous that the fountain was too heavy to sit atop the crate) and put the crate in a different spot. The survivors buzzed around the fountain. Where was their fortress? Their queen?
But it didn't take them long to find the box in its new spot. Grousing, I opened the lid and filled it with a cloud of insecticide, creating a poison box. Then I sprayed all the cracks with more insecticide. Ha!
This morning I came out to work and found yet more survivors flitting around the porch. They don't go near the poison box, but they hang around my fountain. I have the can of insecticide with me, and whenever I see one--GOOSH!
Yellow jackets. Yeesh!
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July 8, 2018
Cats, Carpets, and Cleaners
The carpets haven't been cleaned since we laid them down more than three years ago. In that time, we've had work done to the house and endured several seasons of pine pollen. They needed to be cleaned, upstairs and down.
The basement carpets especially were smelling musty and, it must be said, catty. No urine--just animal. I told Darwin it was my opinion that this was because the cats spend 10 or 11 hours out of 24 down there, either because they want to or because they have to. He agreed. Perhaps it was time to re-think the household policy of having the cats spend nights in the basement.
I called a carpet cleaning company, and they arrived on Saturday morning with their trusty truck and elongated hoses. We locked the cats in the bathroom while the cleaners went through the house, removing dust, dirt, and stains and leaving a lemon scent behind.
After they left, we let the freaked cats out of the bathroom. They didn't like the wet carpets at all! When they walked across them, they tried picking all four feet up at once. And to their dismay, every time stepped onto the wood floors, their wet paws skidded out from underneath them. We thought it was funny, but they didn't.
That night, Dora began her usual routine of begging for treats before being locked in the basement. I tossed her treats down the stairs and she waddled after them, but I didn't shut the door. Dinah followed. A few minutes later, Dora reappeared, looking mystified but hopeful. Had we forgotten the entire incident and could we therefore be convinced to give her MORE TREATS? The begging began. I squirted her with a water bottle, and it ended right quick.
Every time we passed the cats, however, they scampered away or hid, afraid we were going to put them into the basement. (I feel I should add that the basement is spacious, fully carpeted, and filled with cat toys, so it's not like the basement is a hardship. The cats just dislike being separated from the humans.) Eventually we went to bed.
Dora made the mistake of crying outside our closed bedroom door. I whipped the door open, hosed her with the water bottle, and she waddle-scampered away. Darwin says after I fell asleep, she whined again, but he ignored her and eventually she stopped.
At about 3:00 AM, I bolted awake for gods know what reason and couldn't get back to sleep. I slipped out of bed and went out to the living room to read for a while. Dora was lying on the couch, and when she saw me coming, she completely flipped her litter. She leaped straight up, all puffed out, and bolted so hard for the basement that she left the air behind her unzipped. Subtext: "Shit shit shit! I'm supposed to be downstairs!"
I read for a while and eventually she poked her head around the corner. No reaction from the human. Huh. Okay, then.
Dinah, meanwhile, stayed atop the cat tree, watching the drama with a much calmer expression.
So we'll see what happens tonight.
comments
The basement carpets especially were smelling musty and, it must be said, catty. No urine--just animal. I told Darwin it was my opinion that this was because the cats spend 10 or 11 hours out of 24 down there, either because they want to or because they have to. He agreed. Perhaps it was time to re-think the household policy of having the cats spend nights in the basement.
I called a carpet cleaning company, and they arrived on Saturday morning with their trusty truck and elongated hoses. We locked the cats in the bathroom while the cleaners went through the house, removing dust, dirt, and stains and leaving a lemon scent behind.
After they left, we let the freaked cats out of the bathroom. They didn't like the wet carpets at all! When they walked across them, they tried picking all four feet up at once. And to their dismay, every time stepped onto the wood floors, their wet paws skidded out from underneath them. We thought it was funny, but they didn't.
That night, Dora began her usual routine of begging for treats before being locked in the basement. I tossed her treats down the stairs and she waddled after them, but I didn't shut the door. Dinah followed. A few minutes later, Dora reappeared, looking mystified but hopeful. Had we forgotten the entire incident and could we therefore be convinced to give her MORE TREATS? The begging began. I squirted her with a water bottle, and it ended right quick.
Every time we passed the cats, however, they scampered away or hid, afraid we were going to put them into the basement. (I feel I should add that the basement is spacious, fully carpeted, and filled with cat toys, so it's not like the basement is a hardship. The cats just dislike being separated from the humans.) Eventually we went to bed.
Dora made the mistake of crying outside our closed bedroom door. I whipped the door open, hosed her with the water bottle, and she waddle-scampered away. Darwin says after I fell asleep, she whined again, but he ignored her and eventually she stopped.
At about 3:00 AM, I bolted awake for gods know what reason and couldn't get back to sleep. I slipped out of bed and went out to the living room to read for a while. Dora was lying on the couch, and when she saw me coming, she completely flipped her litter. She leaped straight up, all puffed out, and bolted so hard for the basement that she left the air behind her unzipped. Subtext: "Shit shit shit! I'm supposed to be downstairs!"
I read for a while and eventually she poked her head around the corner. No reaction from the human. Huh. Okay, then.
Dinah, meanwhile, stayed atop the cat tree, watching the drama with a much calmer expression.
So we'll see what happens tonight.
comments
A Strange Vacation 3
I haven't seen my college friend Stephanie since her wedding over 20 years ago. Since then, we've both been divorced, had multiple careers, raised autistic children, dealt with severe health issues, and have reached the point where hands-on parenthood is nearly over. We've kept in touch sporadically on-line, but not face-to-face. Stephanie lives in Philadelphia, so when I told her I was coming for a few days, we happily set up a meeting.
We met at a cafe for an early lunch. It was so good to see her! Stephanie hasn't changed at all except for the gray in her hair. The weather was roasting hot--over 90 degrees--so we stayed in the air-conditioned cafe and talked. Darwin had never met her, so he got to know her. :) And then after we started feeling guilty for hogging the table, we adjourned to our rented flat and talked some more. It was wonderful to get re-acquainted!
Eventually, Stephanie had to leave. After a "we won't wait twenty years for the next reunion" farewell, Darwin and I wandered about Philadelphia doing nothing much, just admiring the neighborhoods and the architecture.
The following morning, we packed up and hauled our suitcases down all four freakin' flights of stairs. I ran down to the parking garage, paid the exorbitant ransom for the car, and put it in yet another illegal spot near the apartment so we could load it.
It was a long, long, LONG drive home. Over nine hours. With only brief rest breaks. But we finally got home.
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We met at a cafe for an early lunch. It was so good to see her! Stephanie hasn't changed at all except for the gray in her hair. The weather was roasting hot--over 90 degrees--so we stayed in the air-conditioned cafe and talked. Darwin had never met her, so he got to know her. :) And then after we started feeling guilty for hogging the table, we adjourned to our rented flat and talked some more. It was wonderful to get re-acquainted!
Eventually, Stephanie had to leave. After a "we won't wait twenty years for the next reunion" farewell, Darwin and I wandered about Philadelphia doing nothing much, just admiring the neighborhoods and the architecture.
The following morning, we packed up and hauled our suitcases down all four freakin' flights of stairs. I ran down to the parking garage, paid the exorbitant ransom for the car, and put it in yet another illegal spot near the apartment so we could load it.
It was a long, long, LONG drive home. Over nine hours. With only brief rest breaks. But we finally got home.
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July 5, 2018
Kitty Treats and the Basement
We interrupt the vacation report for a kitty blog.
Darwin and I have to put the cats in the basement at night because otherwise they scratch at our bedroom door and meow and cry and wail., "THE DOOR IS CLOSED! WHY WON'T YOU LET US IN????"
And our cats are NOT good bed companions. They wander around the bed, bat at the covers, and sit on your face. So at night, into the basement they go.
Darwin somehow trained them to scamper for the basement when he claps his hands at them, which was a neat trick. But sometimes the cats don't want to go, and instead of running for the basement, they run under the bed or the table to hide, which forces us to spend several annoying minutes in kitty extraction.
And then I remembered the cat treat box.
I store the tiny nibbles of cat treats in a Tupperware container rather than in the bag they come in because the bag never closes right, and the treats go stale. Whenever I want to give the cats a treat, I shake the Tupperware, and the rattling of treats instantly brings both cats a-running, no matter where they are in the house. Dora, who waddles rather than runs, especially can't resist the siren lure.
So one evening when the cats were resisting the basement, I shook the cat treat box. POOF! Both cats emerged from hiding and danced around the kitchen, demanding a treat. I tossed the treats into the basement. ZOOM! The cats rushed down the stairs. I shut the door.
This went on. It never, ever failed. More than once, I could see that Dinah was leery about the basement and didn't want to go, but the treats are her crack, and she has to go.
And Dora? The little lard butt doesn't even pretend to resist. And then we had a new development. Nowadays, when it gets dark, she waddles up to the nearest human, meowing and whining and demanding attention. I couldn't figure out why she was so needy after dark. I'd try to pet her, and she'd run out of the room, then saunter back in, meowing some more, then run away when I tried to pet her. I finally realized she was waddling toward the basement. She WANTS the basement because it means a cat treat! She's willing to sell hours of freedom for a teensy snack that takes her only a second to devour.
Classic conditioning in action.
comments
Darwin and I have to put the cats in the basement at night because otherwise they scratch at our bedroom door and meow and cry and wail., "THE DOOR IS CLOSED! WHY WON'T YOU LET US IN????"
And our cats are NOT good bed companions. They wander around the bed, bat at the covers, and sit on your face. So at night, into the basement they go.
Darwin somehow trained them to scamper for the basement when he claps his hands at them, which was a neat trick. But sometimes the cats don't want to go, and instead of running for the basement, they run under the bed or the table to hide, which forces us to spend several annoying minutes in kitty extraction.
And then I remembered the cat treat box.
I store the tiny nibbles of cat treats in a Tupperware container rather than in the bag they come in because the bag never closes right, and the treats go stale. Whenever I want to give the cats a treat, I shake the Tupperware, and the rattling of treats instantly brings both cats a-running, no matter where they are in the house. Dora, who waddles rather than runs, especially can't resist the siren lure.
So one evening when the cats were resisting the basement, I shook the cat treat box. POOF! Both cats emerged from hiding and danced around the kitchen, demanding a treat. I tossed the treats into the basement. ZOOM! The cats rushed down the stairs. I shut the door.
This went on. It never, ever failed. More than once, I could see that Dinah was leery about the basement and didn't want to go, but the treats are her crack, and she has to go.
And Dora? The little lard butt doesn't even pretend to resist. And then we had a new development. Nowadays, when it gets dark, she waddles up to the nearest human, meowing and whining and demanding attention. I couldn't figure out why she was so needy after dark. I'd try to pet her, and she'd run out of the room, then saunter back in, meowing some more, then run away when I tried to pet her. I finally realized she was waddling toward the basement. She WANTS the basement because it means a cat treat! She's willing to sell hours of freedom for a teensy snack that takes her only a second to devour.
Classic conditioning in action.
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June 29, 2018
A Strange Vacation 2
On Tuesday, we drove to Philadelphia. This is because George McClary had ties in Pennsylvania, and Philadelphia has a huge library of genealogical records from all over the state.
Ohhhh, the nightmare of driving in Philadelphia! Because the city is so old, the streets are narrow and you pay internal organs for what little parking there is. Even the GPS worked poorly.
With a great deal of effort, we found our first AirBnB apartment and parked illegally to unload. The second-floor place was part of a heavily-renovated building. The entry hallway used to be the alley between two buildings that were combined into a single building. The apartment was completely new, from new wooden floors to new ceiling. It was spacious and bright. This is why we don't do hotels anymore!
I found a parking garage that would "only" charge $25 per day, stashed the car in it, and rode my bike back to the apartment, using my GPS as a guide. It was difficult--the GPS kept futzing out or telling me I was a block away from my actual location. This problem carried major repercussions later.
For the next couple days, we alternated research and touring. Darwin and I love cemeteries (the mystery of the people buried there is irresistible), and we spent hours poking around Philadelphia's many graveyards, including the famous one at Christchurch, where Benjamin Franklin is buried. Darwin's great-something uncle baptized Benjamin Franklin, so he always like seeing Franklin-related stuff.
He was in the right place for it. Philadelphia never lets you forget Benjamin Franklin was the city's most prominent citizen. Every place that he was in any way involved in has a marker or a statue or a plaque dedicated to his work. We read them all and visited the site of his house and enjoyed all of it.
We visited Washington Square, which is the unmarked grave site of thousands of slaves, poor folk, and Revolutionary War soldiers who died either in British captivity or of yellow fever. THOUSANDS. The place is now a park with an Unknown Soldier tomb and eternal flame in the center. I like that the graveyard has become a park. The individuals buried there may not be known by name, but we know what they did, and lots of people visit the place every day.
Darwin also hit the historical library. I helped as best I could, but this time was of limited worth. Darwin searched the database and leafed through dozens and dozens of dusty books. He found nothing useful about George or Margaret McClary. The search continues.
Yesterday evening, we realized a problem--we had no idea where the car was. The garage spat a card as us when we pulled in, but we left it in the car. And since the GPS sent me here and there and everywhere on my way from the garage to the apartment, I had no idea how to get back to it.
We spent a difficult couple of hours. We looked up parking garages on-line, but none of them looked familiar. We even rode our bikes out to check out a few, but none of them were right. This was getting more and more worrisome. Should we call the police for help? But what could they do? I checked the app that I can use to control the car with (turn it on, lock it, etc.) to see if it had a location function, but I couldn't find one. After more frantic searching, I checked the app again and found a phone number for Ford. Desperate, I called it. The customer service person said there was indeed a GPS locator for the car, and she walked me through finding it. (It was hidden deep in the recesses of the app and hard to find.) Success! I had it on my map and we found it. Man.
This morning, we checked out of the first apartment. The place wasn't available through the weekend, so we had to get a second place for Friday through Sunday. I fetched the car without incident (except for the $75 parking fee), parked illegally near the apartment, and we loaded up. More hellish driving through Philadelphia took us to another parking place near the historical library, where I'm writing these words. Darwin is doing more research, and later we'll check in to our new digs.
Tomorrow, we're hooking up with my friend Stephanie, who I haven't seen in nearly 20 years. Looking forward to that!
comments
Ohhhh, the nightmare of driving in Philadelphia! Because the city is so old, the streets are narrow and you pay internal organs for what little parking there is. Even the GPS worked poorly.
With a great deal of effort, we found our first AirBnB apartment and parked illegally to unload. The second-floor place was part of a heavily-renovated building. The entry hallway used to be the alley between two buildings that were combined into a single building. The apartment was completely new, from new wooden floors to new ceiling. It was spacious and bright. This is why we don't do hotels anymore!
I found a parking garage that would "only" charge $25 per day, stashed the car in it, and rode my bike back to the apartment, using my GPS as a guide. It was difficult--the GPS kept futzing out or telling me I was a block away from my actual location. This problem carried major repercussions later.
For the next couple days, we alternated research and touring. Darwin and I love cemeteries (the mystery of the people buried there is irresistible), and we spent hours poking around Philadelphia's many graveyards, including the famous one at Christchurch, where Benjamin Franklin is buried. Darwin's great-something uncle baptized Benjamin Franklin, so he always like seeing Franklin-related stuff.
He was in the right place for it. Philadelphia never lets you forget Benjamin Franklin was the city's most prominent citizen. Every place that he was in any way involved in has a marker or a statue or a plaque dedicated to his work. We read them all and visited the site of his house and enjoyed all of it.
We visited Washington Square, which is the unmarked grave site of thousands of slaves, poor folk, and Revolutionary War soldiers who died either in British captivity or of yellow fever. THOUSANDS. The place is now a park with an Unknown Soldier tomb and eternal flame in the center. I like that the graveyard has become a park. The individuals buried there may not be known by name, but we know what they did, and lots of people visit the place every day.
Darwin also hit the historical library. I helped as best I could, but this time was of limited worth. Darwin searched the database and leafed through dozens and dozens of dusty books. He found nothing useful about George or Margaret McClary. The search continues.
Yesterday evening, we realized a problem--we had no idea where the car was. The garage spat a card as us when we pulled in, but we left it in the car. And since the GPS sent me here and there and everywhere on my way from the garage to the apartment, I had no idea how to get back to it.
We spent a difficult couple of hours. We looked up parking garages on-line, but none of them looked familiar. We even rode our bikes out to check out a few, but none of them were right. This was getting more and more worrisome. Should we call the police for help? But what could they do? I checked the app that I can use to control the car with (turn it on, lock it, etc.) to see if it had a location function, but I couldn't find one. After more frantic searching, I checked the app again and found a phone number for Ford. Desperate, I called it. The customer service person said there was indeed a GPS locator for the car, and she walked me through finding it. (It was hidden deep in the recesses of the app and hard to find.) Success! I had it on my map and we found it. Man.
This morning, we checked out of the first apartment. The place wasn't available through the weekend, so we had to get a second place for Friday through Sunday. I fetched the car without incident (except for the $75 parking fee), parked illegally near the apartment, and we loaded up. More hellish driving through Philadelphia took us to another parking place near the historical library, where I'm writing these words. Darwin is doing more research, and later we'll check in to our new digs.
Tomorrow, we're hooking up with my friend Stephanie, who I haven't seen in nearly 20 years. Looking forward to that!
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A Strange Vacation 1
Darwin is an avid genealogist. Over the years, he's compiled an enormous family tree dating back to the 1600s. However, as happens to all major family tree projects, he has a few gaps, relatives he's unable to track down or verify. One major block for him is a distant grandparent and his children who lived in Newton Falls, Ohio (near Warren) in the 1800s. The grandparent (George McClary) owned a farm outside Warren and was buried there, but twenty-some years after his death, his son Alexander sold or abandoned the family farm and moved to Niles, Michigan. Why? Good question. Darwin has also been trying to find the grave of George McClary and his wife Margaret for years and years with no luck. There's also almost no information about Margaret to be found.
For years, Darwin has been wanting to visit Warren to see if any local records mention George and Margaret. This year he finally set aside time to go, so off we went.
I was coming along as a sort-of research assistant and to explore a new town. I figured I could also do some writing while Darwin was researching.
I found us an AirBnB apartment in Warren, and it was very nice, with original woodwork and floors but updated fixtures. The building seems to have been an eight-unit apartment building put up in the 20s and recently renovated by a new owner. The other apartments were occupied by young professionals.
Warren itself fell on hard times. Years ago, it was a major shipping hub. A canal and a railroad had major stops in Warren, and as a result, a lot of decent-sized factories went up--you wanted your factory close to the shipping back then. But then came trucking. And a couple-three recessions. The canal was closed. The railroad faded away. The factories also closed or relocated. And the town went to seed. Today its main industry seems to be the hospital. Nearly everyone we ran into was connected to it in some way. The downtown is a delight, with a huge, impressive stone courthouse that looks like a castle. But outside that small area are dead strip malls, boarded-up factories, and crumbling Victorian houses.
After we arrived, Darwin and I drove over to Newton Falls to look around. We found the old cemetery right off (the new one was across a rusty WPA bridge that rattled over the river) and searched through it for George's grave. No luck. Many of the stones were, of course, hard to read, and we had no idea what section he was in. While we were searching, a woman and her young son strolled through the graveyard, and it looked like this was part of a regular route for them. I asked her if she'd ever seen a grave for McClary. She said she hadn't, but she could give me the number of the cemetery sexton, who would know. Yes!
The next day, I called the sexton, but only got voice mail, so I left a message. While Darwin was occupied with something else, I did a quick search on George McClary and discovered someone had posted a photo of the gravestone just last year (after Darwin had stopped bothering with on-line searches for him). We rushed back to Newton Falls and started hunting. Fairly quickly I found it and called Darwin over. The stone was one I'd seen yesterday, but the inscription was too faded to make out well, and I'd passed it over.
Darwin was happy to have found it. I was two for two!
However, the grave next to it had no stone. Presumably this was Margaret's grave, but it had no marker.
After another call to the sexton got only voice mail, we tracked down the office and went to see him in person. He was also head of the local road commission, and he shared office space with a small fleet of construction vehicles. He seemed a little annoyed that Darwin was asking for grave information (though it's his job), and he dug through a file of stuff. Nothing about Margaret McClary. Not a word.
This has been bugging Darwin for some time. He doesn't even have a death date for her. He's not 100% certain she died in Newton Falls. Perhaps Alexander McClary dumped the farm BEFORE she died, and the entire family moved up to Michigan, leaving the empty grave behind. Or perhaps they were having financial problems (the farm was tiny and supporting eight people) and couldn't afford a stone. Or . . . or . . . or . . . The answer may lie in Niles, which we'll have to visit later.
We also tracked down the exact location of the McClary farm and drove out to have a look. The area is all Ohio farmland, with corn and wheat and hay fields in all directions--EXCEPT the McClary farm. It was all woodlands with Kale Creek running through it.
Darwin was uncertain about exploring the place, but I pointed out that there were no houses anywhere within shouting distance, so who would notice we were there? I parked the car in a forgotten side road and we got out for some tramping around.
The former farm was completely overgrown by a forest that looked to be tertiary growth, maybe 75 or 80 years old. This added to the mystery. The place used to be a farm, which meant it was clear-cut like all the rest of the land around it. Obviously the McClarys had left the place and no one else had taken it over. We coudln't find out who currently owned the land, but Darwin is going to check on-line later.
The land was beautiful, with the trees and the babbling creek. It would be an idyllic place for a young Alexander McClary to grow up (as much as being an 1800s farm boy can be idyllic). We tramped around for a while and tried to figure out where the house might have been, but had no luck there. And I got stung by nettles. Ow!
We left with mud all over our shoes and headed back to town for more research. I also did some exploring around town by myself. Darwin eventually came to the conclusion there was nothing else to find.
So we headed to Philadelphia.
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For years, Darwin has been wanting to visit Warren to see if any local records mention George and Margaret. This year he finally set aside time to go, so off we went.
I was coming along as a sort-of research assistant and to explore a new town. I figured I could also do some writing while Darwin was researching.
I found us an AirBnB apartment in Warren, and it was very nice, with original woodwork and floors but updated fixtures. The building seems to have been an eight-unit apartment building put up in the 20s and recently renovated by a new owner. The other apartments were occupied by young professionals.
Warren itself fell on hard times. Years ago, it was a major shipping hub. A canal and a railroad had major stops in Warren, and as a result, a lot of decent-sized factories went up--you wanted your factory close to the shipping back then. But then came trucking. And a couple-three recessions. The canal was closed. The railroad faded away. The factories also closed or relocated. And the town went to seed. Today its main industry seems to be the hospital. Nearly everyone we ran into was connected to it in some way. The downtown is a delight, with a huge, impressive stone courthouse that looks like a castle. But outside that small area are dead strip malls, boarded-up factories, and crumbling Victorian houses.
After we arrived, Darwin and I drove over to Newton Falls to look around. We found the old cemetery right off (the new one was across a rusty WPA bridge that rattled over the river) and searched through it for George's grave. No luck. Many of the stones were, of course, hard to read, and we had no idea what section he was in. While we were searching, a woman and her young son strolled through the graveyard, and it looked like this was part of a regular route for them. I asked her if she'd ever seen a grave for McClary. She said she hadn't, but she could give me the number of the cemetery sexton, who would know. Yes!
The next day, I called the sexton, but only got voice mail, so I left a message. While Darwin was occupied with something else, I did a quick search on George McClary and discovered someone had posted a photo of the gravestone just last year (after Darwin had stopped bothering with on-line searches for him). We rushed back to Newton Falls and started hunting. Fairly quickly I found it and called Darwin over. The stone was one I'd seen yesterday, but the inscription was too faded to make out well, and I'd passed it over.
Darwin was happy to have found it. I was two for two!
However, the grave next to it had no stone. Presumably this was Margaret's grave, but it had no marker.
After another call to the sexton got only voice mail, we tracked down the office and went to see him in person. He was also head of the local road commission, and he shared office space with a small fleet of construction vehicles. He seemed a little annoyed that Darwin was asking for grave information (though it's his job), and he dug through a file of stuff. Nothing about Margaret McClary. Not a word.
This has been bugging Darwin for some time. He doesn't even have a death date for her. He's not 100% certain she died in Newton Falls. Perhaps Alexander McClary dumped the farm BEFORE she died, and the entire family moved up to Michigan, leaving the empty grave behind. Or perhaps they were having financial problems (the farm was tiny and supporting eight people) and couldn't afford a stone. Or . . . or . . . or . . . The answer may lie in Niles, which we'll have to visit later.
We also tracked down the exact location of the McClary farm and drove out to have a look. The area is all Ohio farmland, with corn and wheat and hay fields in all directions--EXCEPT the McClary farm. It was all woodlands with Kale Creek running through it.
Darwin was uncertain about exploring the place, but I pointed out that there were no houses anywhere within shouting distance, so who would notice we were there? I parked the car in a forgotten side road and we got out for some tramping around.
The former farm was completely overgrown by a forest that looked to be tertiary growth, maybe 75 or 80 years old. This added to the mystery. The place used to be a farm, which meant it was clear-cut like all the rest of the land around it. Obviously the McClarys had left the place and no one else had taken it over. We coudln't find out who currently owned the land, but Darwin is going to check on-line later.
The land was beautiful, with the trees and the babbling creek. It would be an idyllic place for a young Alexander McClary to grow up (as much as being an 1800s farm boy can be idyllic). We tramped around for a while and tried to figure out where the house might have been, but had no luck there. And I got stung by nettles. Ow!
We left with mud all over our shoes and headed back to town for more research. I also did some exploring around town by myself. Darwin eventually came to the conclusion there was nothing else to find.
So we headed to Philadelphia.
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June 20, 2018
It's Not Just Trump at the Border
I don't understand how the people on the ground can be part of ripping children away from their parents at the border. Someone had to build the shelters, erect the cages, install the security system, arrest the parents, yank the children away, and stuff them into cages. How the hell? I would unilaterally refuse, and if/when I got into trouble, I would go straight to the press and tell the full story. The people who are "following orders" are just as bad as Donald Trump himself.
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June 17, 2018
Gym Update
Darwin and I were stumbling around the gym, not entirely sure what we should be doing. So I finally made us an appointment with the trainer. Zach sat down with us and created a workout regimen. Mine is a little different from Darwin's. I'm already running 6 days a week ("Are you training for something?" Zach asked. "No," I sighed. "I just need to exercise, and I hate running the least."), and I have slightly different goals. I want to work on upper body strength, since all my power is in my legs. Zach wrote this out and gave Darwin and me a tour of the different machines.
The next day, we went back and set to work. Weight machines are mean! Chest and back was first on my list, and it was awful, which means I was doing it right. I could feel the tight soreness in my muscles, so I spent considerable time stretching afterward. The next day, I wasn't sore at all. Darwin didn't stretch very much, and paid for it later!
The next day, Darwin didn't want to go. I played a card that usually works: "I'm leaving. It'd be great if you came with me, but I'm going now." This often gets him moving! Day two was arms. More cruelty! And each weight workout is followed by three kilometers of running. (Usually I do five, but if I've been lifting, I'm giving myself a little break.) Darwin prefers the rowing machine for cardio.
Today is Father's Day, and I'm resting. :)
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The next day, we went back and set to work. Weight machines are mean! Chest and back was first on my list, and it was awful, which means I was doing it right. I could feel the tight soreness in my muscles, so I spent considerable time stretching afterward. The next day, I wasn't sore at all. Darwin didn't stretch very much, and paid for it later!
The next day, Darwin didn't want to go. I played a card that usually works: "I'm leaving. It'd be great if you came with me, but I'm going now." This often gets him moving! Day two was arms. More cruelty! And each weight workout is followed by three kilometers of running. (Usually I do five, but if I've been lifting, I'm giving myself a little break.) Darwin prefers the rowing machine for cardio.
Today is Father's Day, and I'm resting. :)
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