Category: Uncategorized

I finally coughed up the cash for a membership to Ancestry.com, hoping to find out a little more about recent generations of my family.    As near as three generations ago, as best I knew, my people were kind of dirt farmers.  I expected to find nothing about my mom’s side, and little about the maternal line on my father’s side–Dad, if you’re reading this, you’ll be happy to know that on Granny’s side, through the Taylors, we’re “related” to some pretty major figures in history.

Starting with this guy: Theodosius I Magnus

Actually, I’m not sure we’re related to that guy a) because I can’t imagine us having any recognized Saints in the family, b) because I find it really hard to believe anyone can trace a direct line back to the 4th Century, and c) because next in line on the geneology chart is Long Haired Clodius, who, according to Wikipedia, does not appear to be related to Theodosius at all.

Clodius’ disputed offspring, Merovech, is even more unlikely our predecessor.  Wikipedia states:

There is little information about him in the later histories of the Franks. Gregory of Tours only names him once as the father of Childeric I while putting doubt on his descent from Chlodio.^[2] Many admit today that this formulation finds its explanation in a legend reported by Fredegar.

Which puts Childeric I into line, and his son Clovis I, and his son Cloataire I.  Cloataire begat Charibert, and Charibert begat Boggis/Bertrand by a concubine, which is kind of awesome.)  Boggis/Bertrand might have begotten Odo, who did begat Hunald, who begat Waifer, who lost his title and lands.  I’m not sure where the link comes in because sources are conflicting, but Goslin Du Maine pops up under Waifer, and he begat Roricon I, who (possibly?) begat Wolgrin of Agen, who begat Alduin Angouleme, who begat William Taillifer (we’re getting closer to Taylor here.)

William begat William, and then a long line of people named variations of William or John, as the last name evolved from Taillifer to Taylifer, to Taylor, until we get to Rowland Taylor, through whom I appear to be related to William Tyndale by marriage.

Rowland, a reverend, was a particular thorn of protestantism in the side of Mary Tudor, Queen Mary I, eschewing celibacy of the Catholic priesthood (go, Rowland!) and marrying to begat Thomas Taylor and on down.  Mary, being particularly humorless as far as Jeezits and the Trasubstantiation that Rowland also decried went, had him burned at the stake as heretic.

Wikipedia reports these as his last words:

“I say to my wife, and to my children, The Lord gave you unto me, and the Lord hath taken me from you, and you from me: blessed be the name of the Lord! I believe that they are blessed which die in the Lord. God careth for sparrows, and for the hairs of our heads. I have ever found Him more faithful and favorable, than is any father or husband. Trust ye therefore in Him by the means of our dear Savior Christ’s merits: believe, love, fear, and obey Him: pray to Him, for He hath promised to help. Count me not dead, for I shall certainly live, and never die. I go before, and you shall follow after, to our long home.”

Foxe reports these as his last words to his son, Thomas:

“Almighty God bless thee, and give you his Holy Spirit, to be a true servant of Christ, to learn his word, and constantly to stand by his truth all the life long. And my son, see that thou fear God always. Fly from all sin and wicked living. Be virtuous, serve God daily with prayer, and apply thy boke. In anywise see thou be obedient to thy mother, love her, and serve her. Be ruled by her now in thy youth, and follow her good counsel in all things. Beware of lewd company of young men, that fear not God, but followeth their lewd lusts and vain appetites. Flee from whoredom, and hate all filthy lying, remembering that I they father do die in the defense of holy marriage. And another day when God shall bless thee, love and cherish the poor people, and count that thy chief riches to be rich in alms. And when thy mother is waxed old, forsake her not, but provide for her to thy power, and see that she lacks nothing. For so will God bless thee, give thee long life upon earth, and prosperity, which I pray God to grant thee.”

From there until 1774, every one of the male Taylors in my line is named Thomas, John, or William, then we jump to Dempsey, who moved his family to Georgia from North Carolina, being the First Gen son of a William, who moved from Ireland.  Dempsey is listed on the roster of Revolutionary War soldiers from Georgia, which means I could possibly accomplish my lifelong ambition to membership with the DAR.  On my mother’s side, it appears that I could also find no small status with the DAC, but I think that’s considered tacky these days, and one thing a true DAC is not, is tacky.  (This is how you know I could never truly achieve membership.  Like Jessica Simpson, I have too much gas and guffaw much too loudly about it to ever be admitted.)  Dempsey also had some issues with getting land grants (he lost a lottery he entered), and may have died without having had any.  Dennis does not seem to have rectified that situation.

Dempsey begat Dennis, who begat Seaborn (awesome!), who begat Elias, who begat John, who married Velma, who begat Allen, who married Joan, who begat moi.

Whew.

Honestly, I’m not sure how much of this is accurate.  The world is filthy with Taylors, and with all the Johns, Thomases, and Williams in the tree, I could be swinging on someone else’s vine entirely.  Still, it’s pretty nifty to be able to see back the four or five generations I feel are likely.  Even more interesting to find information regarding my mother’s super-secretive family history.

I think what excited her the most was finding out my grandparents’ wedding date.  August 8, 1942.

All the best things happen in August.

By the way, we’ve had a nice, constant, soaking rainfall going since late yesterday afternoon.  I link you to this story about drivers becoming stranded in flash flooding across my area.  See?  Stressful.  Not relaxing.  You try getting a water-loving six-year-old across a puddle-riddled parking lot in the rain at dark-thirty in the morning, attempting to keep him as dry as possible so that he isn’t walking around in soupy shoes all day and tell me how relaxing that is.  Om my arse.

In other opinions:  I saw Bridesmaids.  I laughed.  I enjoyed myself.  I cannot, for the life of me, understand why Melissa McCarthy is up for an Oscar.  Ugly pants, wrist-braces, and gross-out barf takes do not equal great acting.  They equal SNL sketches.  I could stretch and give you a nomination for Wiig, who did a very nice job showing the evolution of emotion and maturity in her character, but McCarthy?  All she did was poop and blurt out inappropriate phrases.

Still other opinions:  I am delighted to read that Samantha Garvey, the homeless teen who made it to the semifinals of the Intel Science Talent Search, has been able to bring about some change in her situation through sheer intellectual talent.  I love seeing a young woman rewarded for being smart, working hard, and looking to education as a way out of poverty.  I love seeing her hard work celebrated.  It is difficult enough to maintain the grades she has made when you know where home is.  I cannot imagine the challenge of doing it while bouncing around between housing, with disabled parents, and the worry of where you’ll be tonight, much less tomorrow.  I love that she has dug in and stayed put intellectually, and I love that she is being lauded for it.  I hope the media latches on to the idea and hunts down further deserving young women and men, and makes news of them and their accomplishments, rather than the current alternative of making news of people who have accomplished nothing more than notoriety.

One more opinion:  The only people who can run for office, are people who can afford to spend months, even years, without working for a living.  People who have no need to earn to provide for themselves, or their families are the only ones who can stay on the campaign trail.  Thus and so, you are never going to get a political candidate who is in touch with Middle America.  Middle America knows that if you disappear from work for weeks at a time, your rent doesn’t get paid, your kids don’t eat, and the bank comes looking for you.  This is what is so frustrating about politicians.

Prior to spa treatments at Ten Thousand Waves, guests are encouraged to relax and unwind with cups of tea, sitting by the fire, dipping their toes in the foot bath, lounging in the sauna, or resting in the Relaxation Room, among other things.  Now, I do know how to relax when it is called for, as evidenced by the gargling snores that startled me awake during my foot massage, but when I am waiting to meet an appointment–even if that appointment is sheer relaxation on my part–I have a very difficult time shutting off my brain.  In fact, the more I am told to relax, the worse it gets.

I don’t think I’m an unusually uptight person.  I’m not mellow as the Fall by any means, but I’m pretty happy left to myself.  Left to myself in a Relaxation Room?

B and I went into the room because I was bored and antsy by the fire.  Maybe they should have given me decaf tea?  Anyway, the room is greenhouse styled, with full walls of windows opening out into the courtyard to a beautiful view.  Tiny, flat cushions are situated against the wall, ringing tatami mats for those who relax by stretching.  Above the cushions are headphones.  B and I took seats together, having our pick since we were the only people in the room, and put on our headphones.

The track playing on the headphones was one of a rainstorm, with what sounded like a steady, soaking rain, thunder in the distance, and a zap of lightning now and then.  This should be relaxing, shouldn’t it?  Well, it wasn’t.  You see, where I am from, when rain sounds like that, it means flash flooding.  Flash flooding means the roads are going to be a mess, and that means I am going to have to get up an hour earlier than usual just to get to work on time.  If I’m lucky.

I glanced over at B to see if he was feeling the same pressure to beat traffic, and found him in a peaceful pose.  I did the only thing I could do.  I poked him.

“This rain is giving me stress,” I told him.

“Shh,” he said, and closed his eyes.  He’s used to me.

I tried to leave the Texas of my mind and go to Georgia.  Georgia, my grandparents’ house, is my happy place.  So, going there, I found I could enjoy the rainfall a bit more.  That is, I could enjoy it until I realized that with that kind of rain, I wouldn’t be allowed out on the backporch because it had a metal roof.  Grandma would have the sliding door open and the humidity inside the house would be like living in a rain forest, and she would be chain smoking so that a cloud of Carlton would be smothering me with its full tar oppression.

I looked back over at B.  Peaceful.  Jaw slightly slack.  I poked him again.

“This isn’t working.”  I explained Grandma’s cigarettes and his brow furrowed.

“Shh,” he said.

I sighed.  The track changed so that the soaking rain shifted into a rushing creek.  Then, I gave B a shove and cried, “See?!  Flash flooding!”  And I took off my headphones.

B went back to his happy place, ignoring my inability to relax.  I sat quietly for a few moments, breathing in and out, focusing on the perfect circle in the gate across the way, going to my other happy place where I am holding an infant Thor and feeling his fuzzy head.  Proud that I had managed to relax somewhat, I glanced back over at B and realized he was in perfect posture, even holding Om Fingers.

 

I was impressed!  So, I poked him.

“You’re doing Om Fingers!”

He sighed at me.  “Yes.”

I tried.  It wasn’t comfortable.  I said so.  Because he is patient (and used to me), B tried to show me a variation.  Still not comfortable, and I said so.  He suggested I try being quiet.  Patiently.  I shrugged, and as he went back to Om, I closed my eyes and moved my fingers around until I found a satisfying position.  I felt good.  I felt happy.  I felt…dare I say it?  Relaxed.  I waited until I was certain that this was the pose for me, then elbowed him again.

“This is what is comfortable for me.”  I showed him.

 

He started laughing and gave up on any hope of meditation as long as I was sitting beside him, and suggested we go back into the main lobby and wait by the fire.

And we did.

And it was good.

10 years ago, today, I had my first date with Bryan, who won my heart over when he said since there were noWhataburgers on top, he saw no reason to climb mountains.  The only other impressions left from that night (other than how much I liked him) are the worry I felt that he might think the squeaking of my leather pants on his leather car seat was something other than what it was, and that he was going to come away with a handful of faux hair when he kissed me goodnight.  He didn’t on either count, and he liked me well enough to marry me two years later.

8 years ago, today, I married Bryan.  My lasting impressions of that day are how much we laughed, how fabulous the Whataburger shaped groom’s cake was, and how much I loved every second of it.

To celebrate, B booked us into Ten Thousand Waves for a couple of days, where we took full advantage of the resort’s offerings and came away limp as noodle people.  We also did a whirlwind tour of Santa Fe and Taos.  Apparently, January is off-season, so a lot of places were closed, but we still managed to find amazing food at a little cafe in Taos, and Blue Corn and El Farol in Santa Fe.  We also ate at the Santa Fe Steamer because Bryan couldn’t pass up the opportunity to eat somewhere that sounded like the punchline of a Family Guy joke–the jokes I made throughout dinner.

I was in Kindergarten or First Grade when my Granny bought me my first telephone.  It was a cream and gold, princess phone and I adored it.  I also employed it frequently to call Granny and natter away about anything that came to mind.  I felt very grown-up.

It wasn’t my own phone line, mind you, but it was a phone in my bedroom, and I could use it whenever I liked.  Back then, I loved talking on the phone.  Now?  I think I used up all my phone talking in my teen years.  My word.  Jamie, or Karen and I would get on the phone and talk for hours.  In my teen years, my friends and I would start phoning each other at 5am (using the Time & Temperature trick.  You had to have call waiting for this to work, but one person would call Time & Temperature and let that message play out for 60 seconds, and wait for the other one to dial their phone number and beep in on call waiting.  That way, your phone never rang, so you didn’t wake up your parents.  This is not to be confused with the Time & Temperature trick used to make Sister Isabelle believe your mother said you could leave school early.) and talk until we absolutely had to hang up to get to school.  After school, we’d be on the phone again, until a parent was stomping around insisting we hang up.  And, usually around 11pm, we’d use the T&T again, and talk until after midnight.  I cannot tell you the number of times I fell asleep while talking on the phone.

I think this is why I am so tired as an adult.  I talked too much and didn’t sleep enough as a teen.

The other day it hit me that Thor has no access to a telephone.  We don’t have a land line, and it seemed absurd to consider a cell phone for a 6-year-old.  But what would he do in case of an emergency?  Would he be able to use B’s or my cell phone?  You know what’s coming, right?

Thor has a cell phone now.

No, he’s not carrying it to school in his Lightning McQueen backpack.  It’s plugged into its charger on the wall, and that’s where it will stay.  I got him a freebie, pre-set the speed dials for the family numbers, and set parental controls on everything else.  Basically, he has a tiny telephone, on which he loves to talk, and talk, and talk.

He called my mother the other day and I heard him ask, as he was settling down in the middle of my bed for comfort, “Now then, Grandma, I want you to tell me everything you know about bones, and how they are in your body, and how they grow, and how they are in your head.”  It reminded me of calling up Granny and asking things like, “If God is in the sky, but once there was no sky, where did God sit while he was making it?”  Grandparents are good things.