Happy New Year 2012!

I thought I should let you know that I have mixed feelings about resolutions this year.  Not that I haven't made any; I do have a short list on the fridge.

In fact, I compiled mine two days ago, well ahead of the official New Years' Eve Resolution Deadline.

You didn't know there was an official deadline?

Oh sure, you have to have them in writing before you have your first drink New Years' Eve.

If you wait any longer, there's the possibility that you will wake up New Years' Day and not recognize the handwriting, let alone understand why on earth you would write things like "wash my car every week so I get better gas mileage, beg my adult children not to move out as I would miss cooking for them, or take up smoking so I have something to list next year to give up (I'm never too out of it to discuss wine in my resolutions, unless it involves buying a winery)."

No, I made my list, but it is tainted by all of this 2012 Mayan talk.  You know, "the end."

Now, everyone I've heard from is saying, "2012 has to be better than 2011.  Given everything that happened with the weather, politics, family, economy, and more, the universe owes us a break."

Then, they write and ask me if I think that this December 21st "end of things," per the Mayans, is something to worry about.

Asking me if we should worry is akin to asking me if I put chocolate in my milk to make chocolate milk.  I worry about everything, twice over.

That's what gives me pause as I head into my resolutions, as some of them would involve activity after December 21, 2012.  I have to ask myself, do I want to put that much effort into something that's going "poof" in less than 365 days!

We all want to be better and have a better year, but just how good does one want to be if there's not going to be enough time for everyone to recognize how good you've been?

I could pay off the house or spend all of that money having fun instead.  If I'm not going to be living here after the 21st of December (and don't have to pay off the note), why bother.

A perennial resolution is to downsize, get rid of clutter, live with fewer things.  Well, if everything's going to be tossed into the universe in some sort of climatic explosion, why should I waste time lugging this stuff all over the place?

Of course, if I don't clean out that will reduce the exercise that I might get via that endeavor, so now I have to consider putting a resolution together providing me with just enough exercise to get me through the next eleven and three quarter months.

Then there's the "have more fun" resolution.  Fun gets tempered by work, family, responsibilities, and some state and federal laws.  Do I head into the New Year with my eye on a bigger, longer future, or deal with the Mayan Calamity and have more fun than I ever thought I could have?

See, this is why I'm perplexed.

As I did write my list of resolutions, I'm heading off in a direction to fulfill them all.

However, I think I will keep my eye open for a class on Mayan language and culture.

Perhaps I can get ahold of a copy of the ancient text that the Mayans put forth about the upcoming December date and figure out something before I get too engrained in being too good for my own good.

Send me your thoughts about 2012, the Mayans, and your resolutions!  We can worry together.  Happy New Year!

Back By Popular Demand: Christmas and Blogging!

Seems people are still checking out my blog, over 400 hits since my last post.  Got busy this summer, and then Fall hit, big time (as many of you know and felt), and now that the holidays are over and, well, since my wife keeps saying "you should be blogging," here we go again.

I'll start my new thrust of dedication to my blog, while I assemble new thoughts to share with you, by posting my latest holiday newsletter, our annual Cunningham Christmas Chronicle...as those of you who celebrate by decorating and gifting and sending cards, traditional efforts can be fun...really! 

Read on...

We decided to take the holiday pressure off ourselves this year and commit to doing everything at the last minute.  In fact, if there's anything we can do after Christmas, for Christmas, we are there. 

I had that plan working just fine, until Theresa's sister, Mary, called to see about coming up, with her friend Dorothy, to each get their Christmas trees.  We make an annual pilgrimage to a local purveyor of prickly poking, needle dropping flora.  They wanted to come up a week earlier than we would normally go...it did fit with our weekend schedule, but would set us up for getting something done ahead of time...we sighed and agreed.  Of course, that meant we were going to have to fill that next weekend with something non-holiday related, but were able to put that thought off to another last minute decision and believed were happily behind again!  We knew it would be a full day. 

Although Mary and Dorothy historically take about 6 minutes each to find a tree (once Mary pointed to one as we were driving in, “That one!”  We could have slugged her), I knew we could count on Theresa to soak up the rest of the day, checking out each and every tree on the 85 acre farm.  In the past, as you know, we've closed tree farms waiting for Theresa to pick out that perfect trimmer.  And I don't mean by sunset.  One year the guy actually had to ask us to leave as his wife was calling him to come home as they were leaving for Midnight Mass.  Upon arrival this year, I set off with Mary and Dorothy to help them cut down and drag back two trees, while I watched Theresa disappear into the forest on her quest for the perfect tree. 

True to history, Mary and Dorothy were espying two lovely firs within minutes of arrival and as I was looking at their possible selection with them (you know, too tall, too thin, crooked trunk, no needles, all brown needles, is that a dead bird in there?), I found Theresa standing next to me.  I told her I'd be with her in a minute to help her look (I get to spend hours answering the, “Does this tree make me look too big?” questions), as soon as the ladies told me which to cut down.  She said, “No, no need to look...this one!,” as she pointed to a tree six feet away. 

What you should be envisioning now is something akin to a biblical scene of massive white clouds in the sky parting, huge bright shafts of light screaming down towards earth and angels flying back and forth singing strains of “Hallelujah!”  And, yes, trumpets, harps, any other heavenly musical instruments you can think of...maybe even an accordion...it was that special.  Years of tree hunting with Theresa flashed before my eyes.  I was shaken (not stirred, that's another story).  “Wha?,” was about the only thing I could come up with.  We were done within twenty minutes.  Mary and Dorothy were so surprised, as they had brought books, kindles, knitting, and wine for their usual wait.  They just pointed to the closest trees to them and, as though surrendering to the moment, each said, “That one.” 

As we were dragging the trees to our cars, I could hear the farm owner in the background, talking to his staff, “Something's off...usually this time of year there's a small crowd, some poking and pulling on every tree, others just sitting around waiting for them...Christmas just doesn't feel like Christmas anymore.”  I felt bad for him, but more-so for us, as now we had nothing to do with the rest of the day.  Mary came to the rescue, “Let's go to lunch.”  “Ooo,” I cooed, “and let's find someplace that has notoriously slow service...that will be fun!'  Turns out the restaurant staff was so pleasant and so attentive that we soon found ourselves back in our cars heading home.  

Back home, as I looked at the tree standing in a pail of water on the deck, I noted I now had the afternoon free of chores.  I caved into putting the tree into the stand and putting it the living room.  Kevin helped hoist it in and it went into place on the first attempt.  I cut the binding cord and it fell out beautifully.  As the branches swayed into place, filling out the space, I turned to Theresa and said, “Great, now what am I going to do?  It doesn't need to be trimmed, moved, reset or balanced.  No ropes or weights to keep it standing.  I guess I'm forced to put the lights on it!”  I couldn't believe we were getting this far ahead.  Then, to add insult to injury, all of the light strings I had packed away last year worked...and they weren't tangled.  I was miserable with success.  But, I knew we still had to decorate the thing, so we decided to put that off for another day.  

That other day turned out to be the next day.  As I came into the house from work, there was Theresa gleefully placing ornaments on the tree.  “What are you doing?”  She apologized, but said that her doctor's appointment was canceled and she had the time.  “Had the time?  We were supposed to be filling time so that we'd be feeling the Christmas pressure!”  I was seething...we were getting ahead of schedule, yet again.  My hands were clenched with stored up energy...I rushed to the kitchen, needing to knead something.  I pulled out butter and flour and all sort of other edibles and pushed out 62 dozen cut Christmas cookies. 

As I was pulling the last batch out of the oven, Matt bounded in and said, “Need help decorating those cookies?”  Before I could sit him down and talk to him about the merits of being patient and planning, and how not rushing into situations is a good thing, he had many dozens spread on the table with icing bag in hand and within hours finished them all off, with colored frostings, sugars and sprinkles.  Our hopes were dashed for a last minute baking frenzy.  I settled into the nearest sofa, wine in hand, racking my brain for something that I could drag out to fill up the advancing gap of free time before the holidays.  “I know,” I shouted, “Christmas cards...we haven't done Christmas cards.”  Theresa twisted up her face, glancing at me, “I addressed and signed them all yesterday...sorry, but I was on call and waiting. I needed something to do.”  I looked at her, “Don't tell me you've got your Christmas shopping done!”  “Okay,” she said, “I won't tell you that.  Maybe you should have another glass of wine.”  

I was defeated.  Here we are, a week before Christmas, and ready for the holiday!  

Faced with time to go out to holiday happenings in the area, time for gatherings with family and friends, time for quiet moments and reflection on life and the holidays, a relaxed Christmas Eve and Day with plenty of time for gifts and goodies, I could only think...time for relaxation, reflection and spending time with others?  

What have these holidays come to?

Who's My Daddy?

Family get-togethers, at least in our family, are opportunities for us to talk about other family members.  Usually, it's about the ones that aren't there (that's why I try to get to as many gatherings as I can) or those who have passed on, who become the subject of conversation.

My Aunt Bea passed away peacefully, recently, at the age of 94.  During the reception that followed her burial, and I'm not talking a festive party-like gathering, but more of a "this was a long day and we're hungry" event, the topic of my father came up via my brother and another aunt who was in attendance.

In conjunction with Father's Day, and these recent conversations, I thought it appropriate to present everything I know about my biological father.  The picture here is what he looked like when he was about 18.  He left me and my brother when we were about 3 and 2, respectively, in the questionably capable hands of our mother, to move out of state.

I knew he was my father because that's what I was told and I do look a lot like him.  And, his brothers and sister seemed to think he was my father.  My mother's relatives used his name, when referring to my father, and my birth certificate lists his name as "Father." I once had someone stare at me to the point of total distraction, stating, "You must be Jack Cunningham's son, you just took me back 20 years.  I went to school with him."  Okay, didn't know the man.  Hadn't even seen a picture of him.

Until I was about 20, that's all I knew.

I can't say that I missed him, as I didn't remember him.

I thought it strange, as did many others, that my mother accompanied me to the "Father-Son" banquet for the cub scouts, but have since figured out that the "scouting" event put her in the room with a great number of men.  Now I know why were late arriving, as she needed the time to over-primp.  She was quite the attention getter there.  I don't remember if I got any scouting badges or awards, but she did score a lunch date for the next day.

Another reason I didn't have "dad envy," apart from never having or knowing a father, was that mother always had someone around to pick up that slack.

When her male cousins, brothers and brothers-in-law weren't around to do the typical male-bonding things with us, like fishing, camping and yelling at us, her dating efforts provided us with a slew of gift-toting, kid impressing types, who kept her busy as she searched out her next soul mate.  Oh, in my mother's context, soul mate equals someone to pay the bills.

You see, apart from my real uncles, there were the "other uncles."

"Uncle" Bob was a drummer in a band...that was his job.  Now, there's a profession that speaks secure relationships, as one of the reasons my mother left dear old dad was her complaint that he spent too many hours in local bars.  I don't think "Uncle" Bob was playing in the local symphonic orchestra...as the nearest one of those to us was two states away!  He lasted a few years...seems his wife, from whom he was "separated," wanted him back.  Those musicians!!!

"Uncle" Lou was a phantom.  Really!  We knew he existed as there were notes and gifts and lots of comings and goings, after our bedtime.  We were threatened with "no meals, no deserts, no movies, and no life" if we came out of our bedroom to see what this guy looked like.  I thought he must have been so physically malformed that one might turn to stone, if you looked at him.  Silly me.  He wasn't deformed...he was just mean and married.

Another "Uncle" was a shoe salesman.  Another "marrying type," he took Mom to lunch regularly, bought me a sandwich once in a while, and managed to do this around working hours, before he had to rush home to the wife he was "going to leave."

"Uncle" J had lots of little jobs.  He swooned over our mother, but wasn't in the race for long.  I was okay with his short attraction, as we got little more than a "hello" once in a while, and it was always uncomfortable when I was in school with my "uncles" children.  Turned out another one of his jobs, besides not getting around to "leaving his wife," was swooning over other ladies about town.  Mom couldn't handle competing with other girlfriends.  A committed relationship, hey that happens, but sharing a date!  No way!!!

"Uncle" L was a really nice guy.  He waited on our mother hand and foot.  He helped her out with all sorts of issues, bought her stuff, gave us stuff, and was just a nice person.  Problem?  No wife, no money.  Too easy, and not a good soul mate (see definition six paragraphs above).

I digress...since those early years I learned that our father, who art in heaven (sorry about that, too easy, Catholic upbringing, and he did die over 30 years ago), ran from our mother.  Her demands demanded that he get as far away as he could.  He remarried, had another family, and was once again a father.

He left behind a pair of cuff links. 

As Father's Day rolls around, I get asked by many about my father.  I don't have much to tell and have been busy enough in my life not to dwell on him.  I tell them what I know, thinking that they are referring to my biological paternal unit.

One thing that did stick with me, through all of the years of questions, was that I did commit to myself was that, if I ever had children, I would stay in town or in touch no matter what.

That's worked out wonderfully, as my wife and I are happily married for over 30 years and have three great children. 

But, due to the upcoming holiday and questions that keep popping up, I found myself looking up the definition of "father" in Webster's Dictionary, to help keep my thoughts straight...it states, "one who has begotten a child." 

Okay, dear old father did that.  Based on that, he gets 100%.  Hmmmm...so do I.

Then, I thought, maybe there's a different definition for "Dad", and I found this poem:

A Dad is a person
who is loving and kind,
And often he knows
what you have on your mind.

He's someone who listens,
suggests, and defends
A dad can be one
of your very best friends!

He's proud of your triumphs
but when things go wrong
A dad can be patient
and helpful and strong.

In all that you do,
a dad's love plays a part
There's always a place for him
deep in your heart.

And each year that passes
You're even more glad,
More grateful and proud
just to call him your dad!

Thank you, Dad .
for listening and caring
for giving and sharing
but, especially, for just being you!
Happy Father's Day
- Author Unknown

Mystery solved!  Who's my Daddy?  

Based on the definitions in this poem, not the begetter, and not the "uncles."  

Adjusting for gender, turns out my wife is my dad, and if you know anything of my family, stranger things have happened.

Happy Father's Day to my wife!!!

Flat Stanley

We've had a visitor recently.  His name is Flat Stanley.

Our nephew asked us if he could come visit, as he's never been to this part of New York State.

Of course, we agreed and set off to show him the sights.

His first adventure was a visit to Mohonk Mountain House, in New Paltz, New York.  He got a ride there with our nephew's cousin, who works there.

You can check out Mohonk at their website, www.mohonk.com, but there's nothing like seeing the place up close and personal. 

Flat set right off to take in the views!  And, not one to stay put, Flat was all over the place in a flash.  He climbed to the top of a summerhouse, to look at the gardens from a high point.

Two stories up he could take in all of the plants that are preparing to flower for the season.

Flat was pretty brave going up there by himself...he could easily have been blown away, as it gets pretty windy up there on the mountain sometimes!


Flat spent most of the day hanging around the mountain house, and while there's lots of places to hike and walk, they have bicycles, horses, golf, tennis, swimming and more...but the best thing to do, and Flat was sure not to leave before he got to it, was taking a boat out on the lake.

Here's a picture of Flat rowing his way across Lake Mohonk.  He was even doing it without paddles, which is pretty good.

Most people have to row and row, but not Flat.  He was able to sail from one end to the other, without any oars at all!

Before he left Mohonk, Flat was sure to check out the maze.

Here, you can go round and round and round, and almost get lost, but good thing for Flat, you end up at the beginning when you're done...whew!

Flat would have liked to have stayed at Mohonk, but he had to get back to our house so that he could go for a ride.

We were going flower shopping, to start getting plants for our gardens, and we were hoping that Flat could help us pick out some flats!  Figured with his name, he'd be an expert.

So, we jumped into the car.

We live near Accord, New York, and there are many greenhouses in our area....you can check out Accord, by reading what wikipedia has to say about it: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Accord,_New_York

Flat was in such a hurry, that when we went out to get into the car, he was all ready there...he couldn't wait to go to the greenhouses!

Flat didn't ride on the outside of the car, don't worry.   We buckled him in, seat belts of course, and set off.

The only thing was that it was raining a bit, but Flat didn't mind...he fits nicely between the raindrops.

The greenhouse we go to is only about 15 minutes from our house and they have lots of plants, flowers and vegetables, to pick from.

When we got there, Flat took off.

It took us a few minutes to find him, but there he was...we should have known...he laid down on the first flat he came across.

We figured he was tired from his travels, so we let him rest a bit

We went through all of the buildings there to see what was for sale this year.


There were marigolds, petunias, tomato plants, geraniums, chives, lettuce and more.

They had lots and lots of flats of plants, but we had the real Flat with us, and just when we thought we'd have to go looking for him...there he was.

Flat was all ready checking out what was going on in the greenhouses and was taking in the view from some hanging plants.

Flat was having a great time.

Even though it was raining outside, it was nice and warm and dry inside and we were able to shop for a while.

We ended up getting a whole flat of marigolds and then mixed up another flat with tomatoes, coleus and some small colorful plants whose name we can't remember.

We did end up buying some seed packets, pumpkins and cucumbers, and Flat will have to come back to see them when they start to grow.

We went outside to pay and when we were getting ready to go, we noticed that Flat wasn't with us.

Didn't take us long to see that Flat was tired.

There he was, taking a nap in the coleus.

Flat's visit to the Mountain House, the ride in the car, and the adventures in the greenhouses had tired him out!

We went back home for lunch.

While we had a sandwich, Flat said he wasn't real hungry, but did have some Wheat Thins and a couple of Thin Mints....hmmmm....maybe that's why Flat stays so thin?

If you're interested in your own Flat Stanley, or helping someone to get to know Flat, check them out at: http://flatterworld.com/about.php?nav=about

Birds Do It

Spring brings thoughts of cleaning, fixing, gardening, and making everything fresh and new.

One of the things we've been struggling with is empty next syndrome.

Not that the boys have moved out, but the lack of it.  They haven't inched out a bit and we can actually taste doing something with those rooms they occupy if they did get places of their own.

We picture spacious rooms, depleted of furniture and awaiting our creative design...new studio for me, sewing and spinning room for my wife, or maybe a whole new bathroom with jacuzzi and enough space to actually move around in.

The reality is, most likely, they're going to be here for a few more years and we'll have to continue to stuff our projects under our bed, dragging them out when the spirit that strikes matches our energy level.

I was on line the other day and, as I do from time to time, was checking out ways to redesign our rooms and came across a gallery of photos, showing what rooms of other still-ensconced children looked like.

It was very strange.  There wasn't anything in any of the rooms.  I mean, there were beds and dressers, and desks and lamps, but missing was the accumulation of toddler through teen debris.

You could actually see from one end of the room to the other...and what was that light source?

We haven't been able to get close enough to a window in either room, in years, to try to clean it off, so their rooms always have this dim bar-lit quality, even on the brightest of summer days.

We'll remind the boys, from time to time, that they need to pick up something...how do you find anything in that mess?  The answer..."If I put things away then I won't know where anything is!"

I guess I can take comfort in the fact that they are getting a workout, climbing over the mounds of whatever-that-is-in-there, and like most parents with children who focus more on socializing than cleaning, we tend to keep their doors closed so company won't think unfavorably about them or us.

One time, a cousin with a police background visited and his first reaction was to ask us when the burglary occurred?

Just recently, I got worried when I couldn't find one of the boys.  I knew he was home, but after taking a look in his room and not seeing him, I searched the house high and low.

His car was in the driveway, but he was no where to be found.  My wife looked, too.  We started to get frantic, thinking aliens had sucked him out of the house, when we heard a small, "I'm still in bed."  A pile of clothes had fallen off the side dresser onto him, in bed, and he was barely a lump amongst lumps.

"That's it," I said, "I'm bringing in someone to clean this up!"

It wasn't easy.  I went through six prospective helpers.

Several just didn't have the lifetime to commit to the project.

Two thought haz-mat training was needed and another wanted a list of shots they should have prior to starting.

The last possibility came to me via a friend.  A visiting Sherpa, Kenji, this friend of my friend, was looking for some work while he was visiting and the idea came that he could spend a few days minimizing the stuff in the bedroom.

Kenji stood at the doorway, mouth agape.  "There is so much stuff and I don't know what is what!"

I apprised him that I just wanted everything taken out and put in piles that my son would go through.  Clothes in one piles, papers in another, musical instruments together, glassware, jewelry, shoes, boots, beer bottles, silverware, serving dishes, car parts, movie stubs, chewed gum, old band aids, each in its own category.

"But," Kenji seemed to object, "There is no path to follow.  Even in the Himalayas there is a path."

"No big deal," I said, "Just walk on top of everything until you get to the bed.  From there you can push the stuff off the bed and use that as your first landing site.  Then, you can pull all of the clothes up onto the bed and start with that pile."

"But," Kenji persisted, "How do I get out?  Even in the mountains we have guidelines to which we attach ourselves to find our way out."

"We can do that," I replied.  "Right over there, next to the pile of empty film canisters and store receipts is about sixty feet of hemp that was supposed to be a hundred beaded necklaces.  You can attach that to your body and throw the other end to me.  I'll tie you off to the handrail in the hallway!  Just be careful, the twenty tins of beads spilled a few years back and it's like walking on marbles over there."

"But," Kenji once again hesitated, "I need food and water for such an ordeal."

"Not a prob," I stated with much confidence.  "The kid went into the room with a full size pizza and several boxes of crackers just the other day.  And, the fact that we're missing half of our glasses and place settings for twelve, there's probably enough water, soda and assorted food items to last you a year!"

Kenji went in.

That was a week ago.

I'm hoping for a full report soon.  I hear clatter coming from the space, and piles are appearing inside and outside the room.

There was also an ominous posting on the bedroom door, with a note from Kenji.

He attached this photo, on the left, and wrote, "Birds do it."

Star Stuck

My wife loves looking at the nighttime stars!

There's only one thing that she loves more than that...dragging anyone in the house outside to look at them with her.

I don't think she's afraid of the dark, as she'll stand out there as coyotes, who are seemingly five feet away, bay at the moon, while bats circle her head.

And, she certainly is not gaining an authority on star groupings by gently forcing me or the boys to join her as, when she questions, "What constellation is that," we always answer the same way.  "It's the Twinkie constellation."

We get "that look," and she states, each time, "There is no Twinkie constellation!"

I murmur, "Twinkie, twinkie, little star....."

"If you're not going to enjoy this, then just go back inside," she commands.

Worked!  Well, actually, I dare not leave.  I quickly point, with a startle, and state, "Ooo, look, a shooting star!"

"That one," she asks, "that's moving across the horizon over the pine trees?  That's a plane!"

Oh.

I spot a small dot slowly moving overhead, "Hey, a satellite!"

She, "How about another plane?"

Okay.  I'm no expert.  I can spot things moving, but when they're millions of miles away can I be faulted for a small mis-identification?

Back a bit, when it was announced that one could see the space station fly overhead, okay a small bright dot in the netherskies reflecting where it was, we got dragged outside.

Based on what we had seen in the newspaper, my wife had figured out just where and when it would be viewable.  She placed blankets on the ground, had blankets to cover us, brought out a retinue of binoculars, and was ready for space station sighting!

I was bemoaning the fact that it was cold out, it was dark (I'm not so intrepid with the knowledge that coyotes, bears, foxes, raccoons, skunks, bats, mosquitoes, ticks, and rabbits run amok at night...yes, rabbits, they nibble on things and they have big teeth!), and now that I was laying down on the ground, my sinuses were moving about and I was getting dizzy.

I should also mention the fact that it was close to bedtime.  I was starting to doze awaiting the arrival of the astronauts.  Hoping that I could wave to them, I had a flashlight, but that idea got nixed when my very own Carl Sagan told me to "Turn that thing off, I can't see the sky."

Can't see the sky?  There's like eighty million acres of it above us...and billions and billions of stars!

I would have said that out loud, but that would have been considered heresy against her revered Carl.

Then the next statement from her, as I lay there shivering.  "Isn't this romantic?"

Fortunately, I had turned the flashlight off and she couldn't see the look on my face, jaw askew, as the frozen word left my mouth, "Abbbb..soo...luuuut...lyyyy."

Nothing more romantic than laying on frozen ground, holding a flashlight you're banned from using in a pitch black environment, sinus pressure squeezing your brains out, while you scour the sky for six Russian cosmonauts who you have zero chance of actually seeing.  Was that a rabbit that just ran by?

We didn't find the space station.  We're sure it's up there, but there wasn't much to report.  In fact, it got a little hazy and my wife wasn't pleased that her view was partially obstructed.

The moon was shining a bit, and that light dimmed the stars and her enjoyment.  She reported that it looked like it wasn't going to be worth the wait and we should head in.  She was disappointed that she wasted her time waiting to see something special and ending up seeing nothing.

At the moment that she stood and turned for the door, I was taking a last look at the skyline and suddenly a bright arc of light screamed across the sky.  In seconds it gained life, shouted it's existence with a blazing stream of light, and then burnt away.  One could almost hear the crackle of fireworks.

I must have gasped or inhaled deeply, as she heard me and turned to ask me, "What was that?"

We've been married thirty years.  I said, "Nothing, probably a plane."

"With everything in the sky, how come you only ever see planes," she asked?  "Good thing, though.  If that had been a comet or the space station I would have been really upset!?

I love star gazing.

The More Things Change....

The celebration of St. Patrick's Day each year reminds me of our family's Irish roots.

Also, lately, I've been in contact with a cousin who I met many years ago and with whom I recently struck up an Internet conversation.  I was sharing a note that her mother had written to me over a dozen years ago and now we write back and forth, almost daily, questioning each other about ancestors long gone.

All of that had me thinking about my great-great and great-grandparents, their lives before they came to America, and their dreams for their family as they made the hazardous trip from wherever they came.

I do know that some of my relatives came from County Mayo, some from Galway, and some from Donegal.  What I don't know is what life was like for them in Ireland or what their trip to this country was like.

What I can imagine is that they left much of what little they most likely had behind and came with many hopes that life would just be easier...some may have thought, as they were told, that the streets were lined with gold, that things would change for the better, there would be many more opportunities, and they'd be living the life of Riley. 

I had heard stories of "the old sod," where there was nothing to do, the crops had failed, work was not available, but they were held together by their community.

One story I did hear is that each night one of the great-great grandfathers would make his way to the local pub, find his compatriots who shared his current life's adventures, toss a few darts, and toss back a few beers.

They'd talk about hopes for change, but soon realized that a better life might be elsewhere.  My predecessors decided to leave Ireland, where things weren't going to get better for sure, and take a chance on having something better over the ocean.

I write these stories down, as I search for the personalities of those who came before us and I like to have them for my boys,  so that they know and appreciate the chances that their great-great-greats took to make a better life for them.

This recent family searching activity reminded me of something I had done.

Last St. Patrick's Day, I decided to put this little story on paper and thought it would be a good time to share it with my sons.

I wrote that their great-great-grandfather's had no jobs, they were living with their parents and most likely borrowing some "airgead," that means "silver," noting that they were headed to the pub to meet up with their friends, where they would be discussing any possibilities of work, life or adventure...anything to improve their lot.

At the pub, they'd play darts (most likely for a bit more of the airgead and, therefore, some more beer) until the wee hours, knocking back a few Guinness Stouts...okay, maybe more than a few...and then head home in the darkness knowing that the next day would most likely be the same as the one that just ended.

At some point, they got up the courage or the need to find a way to leave the island and, because of them, we have enjoyed our position due in part to that early effort.

I was looking for the two boys that were home that day, knowing that they were around the house somewhere, to share this story with them.

They were both recently looking for work and had said that they were getting together to talk over some positions they seemed to have found for each other.

I wanted to share the story of immigration, the dangers of the trip those hardy souls made, the hard work and perseverance that led to some successes, and to let them know that our lives were better.

My wife said, "They went outdoors, I think they're out back by the shed."

"Outdoors," I queried?  "Why?"

"Don't know," she said, "Go find out."

I went out the downstairs door and found that they had moved a dart board from the downstairs room and put in on the side of the shed.  Off to the side they had placed a bench and lined up a few bottles of Guinness.

I watched for a moment and listened as they talked about how hard it was to find work, that they wanted to be out on their own, and that the only thing they had to do that day was throw some darts and throw back a few brews!

At that point, I wasn't sure if I should share the story with them to point out how good they had it or suggest that they emigrate.

What I was certain about was the fact that it was probably a good thing that the great-great didn't live to see that, at that moment, about the only thing that had changed was that the dart game moved about 3600 miles west!

The Adventures of Bart Sweeney

At times, a review of your family history, and discussions with siblings and other family members, can help to explain why you are where you are now and how you got to be who you are.

I believe that while many set out to find out where ancestors came from, and to discover where they hid the gold and find unclaimed family land and treasures, people are on a path of self-discovery and look to take the cumulative information and say, "Got it!  That explains a lot. Now, if only Great-Grandpa So-and-So had only taken an earlier boat, who knows what we could have done!"

I had life changing events.  Happenings that I believe set me off on a career of service to others.

The first round gave me stamina.

Each school day, from 1st grade to 4th grade, I had to ensure that my younger brother made it to school on time.

By the time we set off to walk the mile plus trip to school each day, our mother was on her way to work and my grandmother was at our apartment, as she came down through the alley daily to get us breakfast and out the door, waiting for until the time that school would start before she returned to her home, thinking we might come back for some reason.

While she waited, she might, much to our mother's consternation, prepare to spend the day repainting the place.  My grandmother loved to paint more than clean...guess she figured painting accomplished many things...looked new, smelled new, cleaned!  Can't tell you how many times our mother came home to different colors on her living room wall.

Anywho, the one of us who made it back to the apartment almost daily, while trying to get to school, was my brother.

On the way to school, should I get two steps ahead of him, my brother would run back to the apartment to report, "He's not waiting for me!"  I'd have to chase him all the way back and start all over again.

Some days, we'd put in four miles just trying to go one way!

My grandmother would lecture me on why I had to wait for him and I had to be really, really careful that his stride was ahead of mine.

I guess I learned that I would succeed when I let others succeed.  Only thing is, to this day he thinks he's older than me.  I guess I let him get too far ahead.

The other adventure regards the choice of my confirmation name.  I had completely forgotten part of the story, but when visiting my brother recently he said, "Hey, what happened to Bartholomew?" 

The mention of that name brought out memories that were long buried.

We attended Catechism classes at the local Catholic school, as our mother couldn't afford the Catholic school tuition, going once a week for a very, very long time.  During that educational process, we were faced with Confirmation, a process where one finalizes the baptism process, committing to being a follower and picking up another name to place between your middle and last names.  I thought it was for better Catholic identification processes.

Turned out you chose the name of someone you wanted to emulate.  I did my research.

The events that transpired at that time had clouded the memory of my original choice, Bartholomew.  However, I really do remember the pain associated with his replacement.

First of all, we'll start with that particular Catholic school.

My mother was divorced.  Big problem.  She had attended the school where we had our weekly Catechism classes.  The nuns that ran the school when my mother was a student there were still there when we showed up all those years later.

They knew what happened to her marriage.  They knew us.

I arrived one day and, as usual, the nuns were lining the hallways greeting their once-a-week, yet to be saved, students.

We greeted them first, "Good afternoon Sister Immobilizia." (I don't remember their names, made that one up, most likely due to trauma).

"Good afternoon Mr. Sweeney."

I jumped back to confront the mistake, at age 8.  "Excuse me Sister, but my last name is Cunningham."  Her retort, "Not while you're in this school.  Here you're a Sweeney!"

I just move on.

Confirmation day is looming, choices to be made, and I had been reading and studying.  I wanted to succeed.  I had read about the exploits of St. Bartholomew and think that most likely Sister Immobilizia had "suggested" that someone choose that saint's name.

St. Bartholomew

I announced to my mother that I had chosen the name of Bartholomew.  "What," she shot back?  "You can't pick that name, it's too long.  You name is all ready long enough.  Pick something else."

Oh no!  I had one day to come up with another name!

Hundreds of thoughts ran through my head, mostly about forgetting all of the studying I did for my presentation, as we had to announce in front of the class what name we had chosen and why.  I settled in to a long night, as D-day was the next day.

Watching TV that night provided me with my out, as I saw and heard a name that fit with a respected saint and I quickly tried to come up with what to say.

That didn't go well.

I got the name right, and was on the right track, but honesty took over and I was more afraid of lying to a nun than I was presenting a made up answer.

"So, Mr. Sweeney, what name have you chosen," sounding almost cherubic, uncharacteristically, queried the nun?

Pat Garrett - Lawman

"Patrick," I stated.

Sister Immobilizia responds.  "Ah, Patrick.  Good choice.  Please tell us a little about Patrick and why you chose this name," the good Sister said almost lilting out the sentence.

"Umm...I picked the name Patrick for Pat Garrett.  He's a sheriff and he did good things and he shot Billy the Kid," I proudly announced.  Of course, I had to add, "He's on TV every week!"

I don't remember moving from my desk to the hall, but I was there in a flash.  The big pointy finger of the nun was in my face and I was dutifully instructed to go back into the class and tell all that I made a mistake and that I chose Patrick to honor St. Patrick of Ireland and I had better go home and study about St. Patrick and be prepared to come back to class with a full presentation next week, and confess this awful thing to the priest at Saturday's confession and be prepared to spend 1000 years in purgatory for having such thoughts.

At that point, I was just concerned about getting out of that school alive.

I did due diligence and studied up on the saint that ended up costing reptile zoos in Ireland a ton of money for serpents that they now had to import!

And, I learned stuff.  I learned that you are who others think you are, that you should go with your gut and generally stick with your first choice, especially when the boss (the nun) made the suggestion in the first place, that you need to study your material, write a script and stick to it, and when confronted with purgatory relax, it's not forever!

The genealogist in me wonders what I would be today had I stuck with Bartholomew.  As my brother wrote to me recently, "okay, so where art thou Bartholomew?"  I don't know.  As I told Sister Immobilizia, or whatever her name was, that's not my name!!!

But what if I was Bartholomew Sweeney?  Would I be in a different place?  Learned different things?  Don't know, but I still would have had to get that brother of mine to school every day for five years...there are some things that names don't change.  Did I mention that my brother used to jump in mud puddles all of the time, to and from school and that it was my fault!  More on that next time in "The Continuing Adventures of Bart Sweeney!"

Hmmm...maybe Bart is the writer in me...

King - Kong

Henry and Barbara King

I've spent about 40 years trying to figure out where I came from.

I know the biological part, I did well in science subjects in school.

What I didn't know was who came before us that got us to this country, how they got to the town where we lived, and why they didn't amass a fortune to leave to me so I could spend my days pasting stamps into albums.

And the "King-Kong" reference in the blog title has nothing to do with evolution...read on!

As part of a social sciences class in college, I embarked on a genealogical project that soon came to a stop when my grandmother (the only grandparent alive at the time I started working on this) couldn't remember much about her parents or siblings.

Her inability to come up with facts wasn't due to dementia or Alzheimer's...she just never paid attention.  As the youngest of 11 children, she was busy trying to keep up with the crowd and was much more interested in having fun.

She also wasn't hearing many of the family stories.  Some of her older brothers and sisters had married and moved out of the house before she started grade school.  There was that big of an age difference from eldest to youngest and her brothers wanted their own farms and her sisters married.

Before I go on, note to my boys here: they moved out!

My grandmother did remember that her father was in the Civil War, that he was brought to this country from Germany as a child, by his parents, and that he fell off a wagon in his latter years.

Nothing to do with drinking, he actually tumbled off a farm wagon and seriously injured himself.  That spill did him in and ended any possibility of anyone else finding out how he got to America or who his parents and their families were.

Another problem, as my grandmother started talking about her childhood?  Her father's name was Henry and she had two brothers named Henry.

Henry, the first son with that name, died young and when the next boy was born he became Henry.  People do that sometimes.  So, when I asked about Henry, depending upon which Henry she thought I was talking about, I could take quite a trip around the family tree, wondering why one day Henry was in the Civil War and the next day Henry had died before he was 10.  No, Henry lived to be an adult, got married and lived on the farm.  Henry the father or Henry the son? Yes.  Turns out those facts are correct for both, same farm, just different years for each of them.

The other issue that had to be dealt with was the change in the family surname from there, Germany, to here, New York.

In Germany, the family name was Koenig.  In America, King.

Now, it so happens that Koenig is German for King, but it wasn't until I saw a recent document that I may have gotten a clue that the name was changed for them, rather than they going to the English version.

For years, I searched for immigration records.  I looked at Koenig and King records for over a generation.  I searched via mail, filling out countless forms and, when it became available, on-line.  Searching ship manifests, going on the basis that Henry traveled with his family, as a  young boy.  I came up with his parent's names early on, Andrew and Elizabeth, but couldn't even get a hook with that.

Then, I found a census record that indicated Henry came over from Germany in 1845...he would have been about 5 years old.  That fit with the family story and I set off to search records with that new information.

Try as I might, no Andrew and Elizabeth, with Henry in tow, Keonig or King.  I pressed on.

The other day, somewhat frustrated, I decided to go through any ship's manifest I could find coming out of Germany where the last name started with "K", with an Andrew, Elizabeth and Henry and was struck still when I saw Andrew Kong.  1845.  From Germany.  Wife Elizabeth and son Henry, aged 4, with a sister, Marianna, aged 3.  Henry had a sister just two years younger...we knew her as Mary.  And Henry would have turned 5 just three weeks after landing in New York City.

I was able to print out the record and check it against the manifest that was replicated and found "Andrew Koenig."  The person who transcribed it for storage had changed Koenig to Kong.

Perhaps, as they gave their names for the manifest, they Koenig, the clerk said, "Kong," they heard "King," and here we are 165 years later living the lives of Kings!

Henry's father, Andrew, had a farm (go ahead, e-i-e-i-o), and then Henry had one that he left to his son Henry, who then sold it off when he had no one to take it over.

They were sustenance farmers, pretty much using up stuff and, apparently, the money on-the-go, and we were left with stories.

Some stories were funny, like the one about how my grandmother and her sister, as young girls about aged 8 and 10, had put chicken manure in the cider barrel and then watched her father, older brothers and uncle drink heartily from it one hot summer day!  They weren't feeling too well the next day.

Others were tragic.  In a day before penicillin, her brother was racing through a field in his bare feet and ran a Goldenrod stalk up into his foot.  He developed an infection and died from lockjaw.

I think that some who search their family histories are hoping to strike gold.  I wonder if Andrew and Elizabeth, who boarded the boat in Bremen in the summer of 1845, with their two children, Henry and Marianna (aged 4 and 3), thought that they were going to America to find gold.  It seems they had intentions of doing well.

Another family story was that Andrew and his family were on their way to California to become beer and wine makers.

Andrew had brought yeast from Germany with him to start the process.

But, once they landed in New York City, while the manifest checker called them Kings and they must have thought they had really made it, they had to turn over what monies they had to pay for the items they brought with them.

Finding they couldn't pay the freight to get to the West Coast, they found their way to upstate New York where friends beckoned them, hearing that their dream of barrels of beer and vineyards was dashed and that they were penniless from having to pay out what they had at the duty port.

Upstate, they did what they knew from the homeland and took up farming.

The Koenigs became the Kings, though the immigration agent called them "Kong."  They gave up their fermentation dreams, due to having to leave their cash at the piers in New York City.  It turns out, twas duty killed the yeast!

Crampon, Crampoff

My wife thinks we should go outdoors for some exercise on any day that she's home from work.

It's a good thing.  At times, we'll walk down the road by our house, about a mile round trip.

Other times it's the rail trail (which is really cross country skiing in the winter and walking in non-snowy weather, mostly flat, level surfaces), or a more serious hike at the Mohonk Preserve or Minnewaska State Park.

The Preserve and Park have all sorts of walking/hiking/climbing venues.  You can check out their offerings below, both have multiple recreational offerings:

http://www.mohonkpreserve.org/

http://nysparks.state.ny.us/parks/127/details.aspx

The most strenuous of activities at the parks, I think, is Rock Climbing.  Permits are required for that adventure.  But, you won't find me dangling from a cliff, unless my wife has something to do with it.  I am always surprised when I see climbers scaling up ice covered precipices; don't they know that the ice is just hanging there, too?

Anyway, there is a fee for hiking, but my wife has an Empire State Park pass and a Mohonk Preserve pass, both of which she purchases annually, so we can go ad infinitum...any time she gets the urge to move, we both move.

This time of year, ice is an additional factor to consider, on top of walking up and down hills, and we were prepared for the fact that various trails may be off limits to hikers.  Some trails are saved for cross country skiers and others are closed, just plain dangerous.  A small slip could result in a trip down the mountain in a matter of seconds, and one that you won't make again.

For our recent expedition, my wife suggested that we go to Minnewaska and just take a short, straight, level walk that would be an easy outing.  She also suggested that we put on our crampons, to ensure that we'd not slip on any ice or snow we encountered, even though we were going to be on an "easy" trail.

Crampons are devices that one attaches to hiking footwear to increase the possibility of not slipping.  Some are simple devices with metal coils that surround the boot; some have multiple long daggers that dig into ice a half inch or more.   Ours are of the less defensive type, so off we went.

We arrived at the parking lot in short order, put on our crampons, and set off for what was to be a "let's take it easy, level walk."

Within seconds I noted something that I remembered, putting together thoughts from geography and physics classes.

We were walking downhill.

As I pondered this action, I seemed to remember that in order to get back to the parking lot an "uphill" would be involved.

On the other hand, I have seen those drawings where you can keep walking down and end up up!

I thought maybe my wife had found one of those natural phenomenon and wasn't about to start complaining.

It was a bit icy, so I concentrated on not falling down.  I concentrated on not falling for quite a while.  In fact, I don't remember seeing anything but snow.  Not taking my eye off my step for seemingly miles, I'm wondering how many bear, snow rabbits or bald eagles I missed running nearby or flying over me!

We continued to go down and down the slope.

The crampons were doing their job and, along with sinking a foot or two into snowbanks as I was trying to avoid icy patches, I made it to what turned out to be a gorge at the bottom of this "easy level walk."

It was pretty to look at, once I stopped and didn't have to focus on my feet.

The path followed a creek, as did we, and soon we realized that we weren't where we thought we were.

We did have a map, we always take a map, but the color coded patches of paint on the trees for the red trail weren't there so we decided to go back the way we came so as not to get entirely lost.

You may remember that I mentioned, just a few paragraphs ago, that we started the "level" hike by heading downhill.

Turns out that stairway illusion of always going down and ending up doesn't work in our little world of physics.  No, gravity and geography took over and we started up...and went up...and up...not realizing how far down we had gone.

The picture below most likely represents the area where one of my crampons came off.

I didn't realize it at the time, but one of them gave up!  I was trudging, as best I could, to keep up with my mountain-goat-like wife (and I mean that in a good way, she can hike with the best), but one foot or the other was punching through the snow and sinking feet down as we traversed a trail that many had not taken.

Had others gone before us, it would have been worn a bit better for us, but being the explorers that we are we took the straight path, directly up the hill, to get back to the car before the sun set!

As we huffed and puffed to the car, coats and scarves hanging from our bodies half pulled off due to heat exhaustion, I reached down to remove the crampons and then saw that my left one was gone.  Fleetingly, and we're talking nanoseconds here, I actually thought of going back a bit to look for it.  Thankfully, lack of oxygen and the sudden realization that the universe had handed me "the excuse" for not hiking on winter trails prevented me from going more than two feet from the car.

I looked at my wife as she said, "Just throw those crampons in the back of the car," and said, "One is gone!  The snow ate it!"  I expressed my sorrow that due to the fact that my crampon was gone, I was mostly likely sidelined for the winter.  Next time we wanted to take such a hike, I'd have to tell her, "Sorry, no can do, crampoff."

Wearing My Heart On My Sleeve

While I am a traditional and sentimental sort of guy, the title of this post relates to a literal transaction of the day.

Before I go on, if you're reading this on Valentine's Day before 6:30 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, please don't tell my wife about this as she hasn't seen what I've been up to today!  She'll be surprised later!

This all started when my wife and I decided that we would not buy Valentine's gifts for each other this year.

When you have love, what else do you need?

Maybe you need a card, and if you didn't order yours from Wendy out in California, like the one pictured here, maybe you could contact her (see her website by clicking on her name in the "Paul's Friends" column on the right) and perhaps she can make you a "Belated Valentine's Day" card...hmmmmm...."I forgot you were my Valentine?"  Maybe not exactly that line...we'll think some more on that.

In the meantime, if you're a guy and you're married, or in any relationship for that matter, you need to pay attention to the "no exchange" agreement when it comes up.  I guarantee you'll hear it during your lifetime.

Whatever you do, don't follow through with this commitment to saving a few bucks.  It's a trap!

While you're thinking, "Great, can save some money and time," she's thinking, "Let's see what he really thinks of me!"

And, it doesn't apply just to Valentine's Day...you may hear this offer at other times of the year, but do not, I repeat, do not sit back and do nothing.  If you have to weave grass blades together, do something.

Today, I found myself in the position of not being able to get to the store (my son had to borrow my car and, as you remember, we live hours away from any sort of civilization).  My heart was pounding.

Yes, part celebratory due to the love holiday, but mostly fear of not having anything on hand when "My Valentine" hits the doorway after work.

I count on the universe for answers, a lot, and it came to me.

I could make something and for some strange reason (maybe too much Merlot last night) I thought meringue.

Weird?  Yes.  Successful?  Well, the process is simple and I think I turned out a good gift...we'll see what happens when my wife sees these later.
 

I took a simple meringue recipe, sugar and egg whites with vanilla, mixed it up, put the mix in a pastry bag and squeezed out heart shaped cookies on a baking sheet covered with parchment paper.

While they were baking, I made a chocolate glaze that would harden over them and found a tube of red icing in the back of the cupboard to add color to the finished goods.

About two hours later, I ended up with enough to gift everyone in the house!

The part about not having anything for each other?

This morning, guess what was waiting for me on the kitchen table?  A card from my wife!

See, the set up!

I pressed on.

Part of the process was fun for me, too.

As an artist, I get to "paint" things and did that by drizzling the melted chocolate mixture over the baking sheets holding the cookies.

While the chocolate was setting, I took that tube of red icing and just made some heart-like designs to finish them off.

What will be waiting for her when she returns from work...a card and a gift!

Ta-da!

I'll probably rack up about 50 points for this one (you get more points if you do this stuff and it's not a holiday)!

She'll see that I do care and I do remember.

Then, she'll ask me why my sweatshirt sleeves are all messy and crumby.

I can tell her that because of her I am wearing my heart on my sleeve for her.

Actually, she'll know that the crumbs are from the half dozen heart cookies that I ate during the day.

Hey, you know what they say!  You can't truly love anyone else unless you love yourself.

Happy Valentine's Day to my wife, to everyone else, and to me!