Almost Wordless Wednesday - I knew he loved me when ...

He agreed to wear a matching pink tie for our wedding ceremony.

© 3 Sept 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Oops, there goes another chunck of my heart

I decided that this summer, instead of having my favorite four-year old every Friday that I would switch off and on with his eight-year-old sister, Little Miss Freckles. 

LMF and I have a stormy history. Once, when she was about eighteen months old her Dad, my stepson, brought her over for a visit, and LMF was NOT amused. She pulled her hat down over her face and refused all overtures to coax her out. Finally, exhausted from her very loud and persuasive protest, she fell asleep in the middle of the family room floor, her hat still pulled down over her eyes. 

 Now, I’m usually a hit with young children. I have no problem talking in funny voices, making funny faces, and in general acting the complete fool, all in an effort to raise a smile on a child’s face. Nine times out of ten it works, but not with my granddaughter. 

 I soon learned that if I met her on her turf, she would throw me a bone or two of acknowledgement. But get her in unfamiliar territory – read my house, the results were not stellar. So, over the years I have given her a wide berth. But she had been asking to spend some time with Grandma Terry, and I thought that this summer would be the perfect opportunity. 

 Of course, I was a little nervous, in the way you are nervous, when the flashing lights of a police card pull you over. Like a rolodex, your mind spins through all the possibilities, none of them good. So I googled queries like “activities for eight year olds.” I asked others for advice, and finally panicked, I chose several items off Amazon.com (my go to place) and had them sent two day delivery, damn the expense! 

 Over the summer, we have played several games of Putt-Putt, tried out the cheap crochet set that I had bought (and found out why it was so cheap.) and played a few school inspired computer games. We’ve eaten lunch at a variety of eateries and once, fixing her lunch, I learned that while my hot chicken sandwiches were good, she readily assured me, the school’s were even better. Sigh. 

 She taught grandpa and me a new card game, she and I played hangmen (she’s quite good) and we sang some songs, and told a few stories. Only once, did I hear the dreaded words, “I’m bored,” which lasted all of two seconds until we started a game of hangman. 

 We discovered that the game, Guess Who, might be great to play, but it was way too much work for busy women like us. By far, her favorite activity was Klutz’s “The Fabulous Book of Paper Dolls,” by Julie Collings. 

 For those of you who have never heard of these paper dolls, let me tell you they are cute and imaginative. There are six different punch-out dolls, and you can make them male or female, simply by the hairstyle and clothing you choose. The clothes are two-sided and because you stick them on with two-sided reusable tape, you have a variety clothing options. They also come with six different scenes that you can use as a backdrop to your play. Below is our birthday party/picnic scene that LMF and I created.

  We decided that because we often LOVED both sides of the two-sided outfits, Grandma needed to order a second book. One Friday, LMF and I almost attacked the mailman as we waited impatiently for the second book to arrive. Thank goodness, it came that day. Note to postman, sorry if we were a little over zealous that day. (He’s probably requested hazard pay for having to deliver to my house.) 

 Below we used the same background to create our “Halloween Party.”

 

I learned many things by spending Fridays with my granddaughter. She LOOOVES chocolate milk and she, OH, MY GOSH, LOOOVES Hannah Montana. She never tired of explaining the complexities of the Hannah Montana plot line, which turned out to be a blessing since for some reason my 55-year-old brain could not keep the whole Miley/Hannah thing straight from week to week. 

 She has a thing for older men – don’t worry kiddo, I’m not mentioning names. She thinks the reason that Papa Al likes her so much is because she calls him, “Evil” and “Loser” (with the traditional “L” sign to the forehead.) She is thoughtful of her siblings, because when we went to the Cookie Lady, she insisted we get extra cookies to take home for them. 

 I knew that our relationship had taken a turn for the better when she told me one Friday, she wished it would storm really hard, so her parents wouldn’t be able to pick her up. Sometimes I wonder how I have any heart left. Too many people are walking off with big chunks of it, including a special eight-year old who spent Fridays with Grandma Terry this summer.

© 26  August 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

It has a good beat, and you can dance to it - What music defined you?

Tim Abbott from Walking the Berkshires wrote a post a few weeks back entitled, "The Soundtracks of My Salad Days.” Tim talked about the 10 most influential albums during his teenage years that defined the person he became. His last sentence read, “How about you?” Though I’m a little late to the party, I’d like to nominate my own list, though a mere 10 albums won’t quite do it. 

Back in those days, we listened to (horrors!) AM radio, and the one station that everybody was tuned in to was CKLW out of Detroit. I can still remember sun bathing in my backyard, with some Sun In spritzed into my hair, little black goggles on my eyes, baking to the tune of The Archies’s, “Sugar, Sugar.” “Sugar, Oh, Honey, Honey. You are my candy girl, and you got me wanting you.”

No, that wasn’t one of my defining songs, but as they use to say on American Bandstand, “It has a good beat and you can dance to it.” I hesitate to cop to the following list, for fear it might be used to prove instability in a court of law someday. But what the heck, my children should know which artists and their albums are to blame for the mother’s odd behavior. 

Peter, Paul and Mary - "In the Wind" 1963 (Technically this was released before my teenage years, but the song, "Blowin in The Wind" had a big impact on my views of war and I listened to the album, and that song throughout my teenage years.) 

Beatles - “Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” 1967 

Iron Butterfly - “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” 1968 

The Association – “Greatest Hits” 1969 (My then boyfriend, very romantically, requested the song "Cherish" be played on the radio as a surprise present for me.) 

Blood Sweat and Tears – “Blood Sweat and Tears” 1969 

Three Dog Night – “Suitable for Framing” 1969 

The Carpenters – “Close to You” 1970 (Okay, I know I lose all credibility with this pick, but the album and falling in love for the first time, happened in the same year.) 

James Taylor – “Sweet Baby James” 1970 (Note, Grandson has been indoctrinated with some of these songs.) 

Beatles – “Let It Be” (1970) (My all time favorite.) 

John Lennon – “Imagine” 1970 

Cat Stevens – “Tea for the Tillerman” 1970 (This pick is my college roommate’s fault. She played it so often it became tattooed on my brain.)

Santana – “Abraxas” 1970 

Simon and Garfunkel – “Bridge Over Troubled Water” 1970 

Chicago – “Chicago II” 1970 

James Taylor – “Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon” 1971

Carole King – “Tapestry” 1971 (This one is tattooed on my roommate’s brain because I played IT constantly.) 

Rod Stewart – “Every Picture Tells a Story” 1971 (Wake up Maggie, I think I got something to say you. It’s late September and I really should be back at school.) 

Steely Dan – “Can’t Buy A Thrill” 1972 

Helen Reddy – “I Am Woman” 1972 

Jim Croce - “You Don’t Mess Around with Jim” 1972 

For the record, when I was a teenager and they would advertise songs written in the 1950’s and 1940’s on special, one of a kind albums, I thought it was the lamest thing I had ever heard. I couldn’t imagine the point of advertising OLD songs and expecting people to actually BUY THEM. Man, life certainly likes throwing all that youthful arrogance right back in your face. 

So, how about you.? What youthful music listening habits shaped you into the person you are today? 

Until Next Time – Happy Ancestral Digging.

© 24 August 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Who Knew

Me - sitting in our living room with my fingers laced, covering my eyes, tiny spaces between each finger open just wide enough so I can see parts of the screen as I am watching the movie “Untraceable.”

My husband shaking his head, “Why did you get this movie, if you knew you wouldn’t be able to watch it?”

“I like Diane Lane,” I say behind the curtain of fingers. 

“Yeah, me too. I hear she told Josh Brolin she’d kick him to the curb, if he didn’t stop drinking.”

Fingers now dropped, I am staring at my spouse, as three rapid-fire thoughts fly through my brain. 

This is the kind of conversation I miss having with female co-workers. And - Who are you and what have you done with my husband. And – Really, she said that to Josh Brolin? 

All of which must have played across my face because then, the perfect man looked at me, shrugged and said simply, “AOL.” Well, okay then. After 19 years of marriage, my husband can still surprise me.

© 16  August 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

How to EmBADbarrass A Four Year Old!

We’ve coined a new word at our house, “emBADbarrased” Our four-year old grandson is the author. 

Last Friday, he twisted my arm and talked me into going to McDonald’s, that famous haute cuisine establishment for the preschool crowd. While sitting at our booth, he spilled the smallest drop of his orange juice on the tabletop, and proving that I am a smart aleck with all ages, I said something like, “Aaah …, I’m tellin.’” 

Instead of the usual freckled face grin that I was expecting, I was surprised to hear him say in an almost anguished tone, “Don’t, I will be emBADbarrased, and I will never come wiff you to McDonald’s again.”

Oh, break my heart. Never again to know the joy’s of Happy Meals. Don’t tempt me kid! Taking pity on his anguished tone, I let him know that I wouldn’t dream of emBADbarrassing him, at least not for such a meager reason as a drop of orange juice.

But the new word has stuck with me and I have been inserting into all kinds of conversations with my husband. 

It’s like the time, when the grandson was going through some serious potty training and the reward was some nifty Sponge Bob and Cars underwear. Excited by the prospect, and wanting me to know he was coming to my house the next day, the little fellow grabbed the phone away from his father one night and bellowed, “I BRING MY UNDERPANTS!” 

For months after that, I would randomly punctuate my conversations with, “I BRING MY UNDERPANTS!”

Now that I know the little guy has reached the stage of self-consciousness, I will have to take special pains to figure out what kinds of things I need to avoid. I truly love the kid, and I would never purposefully cause him a moment’s unhappiness. 

Walking back to my front steps as he and his mother were backing out of the driveway last Friday, I heard a shout, “Maw T-U!” 

I turned around to see him wildly blowing kisses at me out the passenger car window. Apparently, THAT didn’t embBADbarrass him. 

Until Next Time!

© 14 July 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Memories of a Childhood Home

When I dream of home, the place my sleeping mind takes me is to the gray shingled house where I lived from the age of two until a few months before my eleventh birthday. The house, built by my Uncle Boo, was a wonderful cozy place that we outgrew with the arrival of my baby brother. Our house was one of the first built on the street, and there were no sidewalks.

For a number of years, a large tree at the corner served as a mail drop, with a variety of mailboxes nailed to its trunk. At the time, it seemed perfectly natural to walk down to the end of the street and get your mail off of a tree. In retrospect, it was a very peculiar arrangement, which today, would probably cause a public out cry and qualify as a crime against nature. 

The one end of the street sat at a higher elevation than the other end of the street, so that it felt like you were walking down a small slope as you progressed down the road. The houses on the opposite side of the road, all had retaining walls in the middle of their backyards, which were handy for jumping off and playing war, unless of course a mom happened to be looking out the back window, admonishing you NOT to jump.

I don’t have in my possession a very good picture of the house itself. Below is a picture that shows the side of our house with the back door, as well as yours truly with my long nose accentuated by mother’s insistence on short, short bangs. My mother and I were constantly at war about the length of my bangs throughout my childhood. I guess we can see by this picture, which one of us was right!

 

Besides my middle sister as a playmate, the neighborhood “gang” consisted of my friend Debbie and her brother Ronnie, Diane and her brother Jerry, Susie and sometimes, when he deigned to grace us with his presence, Susie’s brother Chris, Mary Ellen, and once in awhile, Pony Tail who lived at the farthest end of the street. Other kids from nearby neighborhoods would also play with us, but this was the core group.

Debbie was the one who taught me how to make the sign of the cross, when she was going through catechism classes. Of course, being a Lutheran, my mother frowned upon showing off this new talent when I went to our church the next time. When I found out by accident, that not only did she get to make the sign of the cross, and have a cool set of rosary beads, but that a quick confession absolved Deb for all that particular week’s sins, I was all like – sign me up! 

And what particular sins could a child under ten have that would make the idea of confession sound good? Well, for one, there was a game we played that involved throwing your flip flops at bees who were minding there own business in the clover, and then running like heck, squealing if the bee chased after you. Of course, one bee got revenge for all, when I was running in my front yard one day, and ran out of my flip-flop, stepping squarely on one of those fine creatures. He rewarded me by jabbing his stinger into my instep. I gave bees a wide berth after that.

Another time, instead of playing hide and seek with my friends, as I desperately wanted to do, my mother made me keep an eye on my baby brother and my two-year old sister, while she went inside to start lunch or maybe dinner. My youngest sister was painting on a large piece of paper on the sidewalk, when I looked away, craning my neck to see what my friends were doing across the street. I don’t think I looked away that long, but it was long enough for sis to get bored with the paper, and decide that using my brother’s face for a canvas was a much better idea. When I looked back, there my brother was with big black circles painted around both eyes. He never let out a peep. Was it my fault he was born with bad reflexes? 

In my memory, summers lasted forever, and the days were filled with kick ball games, running through the sprinkler, communal reading of comic books, and plays performed and written by those of us in the neighborhood. It was a great place to spend a childhood, and there are many nights where I am back in that neighborhood, with those friends and that house – even if it is only in my dreams. 

Until Next Time! 

This post written for “Smile for the Camera’s” 3rd edition – a celebration of home.

© 10 July 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Yo Momma and Dirty Diaper Humor

Warning - those of you who have difficulty controlling your gag reflex will want to pass on this post. This post may also be offensive to those with good taste. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! 

Not that this has anything to do with genealogy, more like family relationships, but I’ve been lurking on a blog entitled, “Postcards from Yo Momma.” Seeing the name, I was a little concerned that one of my three darling children may have instigated the blog as I have been know to sign my emails to them, Yo Momma. Thank goodness, none of my offspring had anything to do with the inception of this website. It was the brainchild of Jessica Grose and Doree Shafrir, who call it a “repository of modern day maternal correspondence.” If you think all mothers send their children dainty little email missives, you would be dead wrong. 

Take, for example, the mother who after seeing her child’s school grades, wrote, “What’s wrong with you?” reminding her son that she had, “enough problems, without you adding to them.”

Or how about the mom, 60 years old, who was going to be pole dancing at a wedding shower. She goes on to admonish her child to, “Look for a flask because the booze sit (sec) for the wedding is NONE!”

Ah, yes, motherly love is a wonderful thing. You should know that some mother’s actually use CURSE words when writing to their children. It’s hard to believe that any child could create such passionate, angry vibes from their maternal parent, but apparently, this happens. Not that I have ever written anything close to swearing in an email to any of my brood, I’m too smart. I know that anything out there in the written world can come back to bite you – hard! The closest thing to an off color email I have sent to any of my offspring was a link to a blog post that talked about a large, um, excrement (read poop) problem. I sent this to my middle child for a variety of reasons.

1. When this particular child was a little guy still sleeping in a crib, he became bored waiting for me to come and get him up one morning. His solution to his boredom involved reaching into his diaper and smearing the contents (read poop) all over his face. By the time I came into his bedroom, all I could see clearly was his right eye. (Do I need to tell you he had pasted the left one shut with his, um, working medium?) Had he made the same mess on a blanket, stuffed animal or even his crib, there is no doubt in my mind, I would have simply thrown the soiled article out. But one cannot throw out a perfectly good child, now can one?

I won’t tell you exactly how I managed to clean him up. I’m not sure if the statute of limitations has run out on child endangerment even if it has been over three decades. Let’s just say that the boy never sought to alleviate his boredom in this manner again.

2. Maybe owing to his earlier experience, this particular child has always found fecal matter (read poop) humor to be amusing. I blame this on the fact that he apparently inherited the “warped humor” gene from both grandfathers. Not that either of these gentleman shared this particular brand of humor, but when you combine a WH (warped humor) gene from both the maternal and paternal lines, the result can be a little over the top. 

3. For years, I have been the one clucking solemn disapproval at this son’s predilection for excrement humor. I knew he would be shocked that I had sent him the link. Sometimes you just have shake up your adult child’s assumptions about you. 

I haven’t seen any excrement references on “Postcards from Yo Momma” but nothing is sacred. So if you are not too easily shocked, can handle the idea that a female parent might occasionally swear, and just want to be sure your child hasn’t sold you out for a brief moment of fame, you will want to check out this website. You should know, it can be addictive! 

Until Next Time!

© 20 June 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

One SuperPower to Go - Please!

Over the past couple of days, I’ve been thinking about what superpower I could appropriate that would help me most in my genealogical snooping. I won’t delve into what short circuit in my brain would lead me into daydreaming about this possibility. Let’s just say anybody who would think it socially proper to a put a picture of their foot online, well who really wants to delve too deeply into such a disturbed mind. Nuff said! Anywho, once the thought of acquiring a superpower had settled into my brain, it wasn't going away anytime soon.

The thing is, it took me all of two seconds to figure out what power I wanted. I mean X-Ray vision might be fun and all that but who wants to see everybody walking around like a big pile of skeletal bones? After a half an hour or so, it would get sooo old! And no way do I want to possess the power of telepathy. I mean who wants to know exactly what negative thoughts the person sitting next to you is having. I certainly don’t want to eavesdrop on someone thinking, “Wow, that Terry has packed on quite a few pounds.” How depressing would that be? 

The ability to fly would be cool. I could fly out to Utah to visit the Family History Library and if I wasn’t done researching by the end of the day, no sweat. I’d just fly back the next day. I wouldn’t have to pay airfare or hotel room costs. Sweet! I could also use the flying thing locally. Just think how much gas money I could save by flying over to the local grocery store when I ran out of Pepsi, chocolate or other important necessities. And you just gotta know that all that flying burns mega calories – talk about a win/win situation. Of course, there could be a down side to this flying thing. Like say, hunters mistaking you for, I don’t know, maybe a really big goose or something. And what if the prospect of a human being flying set the bird world into such a tizzy that they went all crazy like that movie, “The Birds.” I couldn’t live with myself if any of you got Tippie Hedrened because of something I had done.

Nope, all those powers, cool though they may be, are not the power I want. What I want is the power that Samantha Stephens had on the TV show, “Bewitched.” You know, that power where she could put everybody into a state of suspended animation by simply twitching her nose. Think about it, what’s the one great impediment keeping most of us from doing some first quality genealogical digging. Time – am I right? So many things tugging at us - jobs, family, social obligations, emergencies, housework, yard work, sleep, getting the gray dyed out of our hair, daydreaming about superpowers – there’s always somebody or something dipping into our personal time bank.

With the rest of the world in suspended animation, I could take my own sweet time to get all my chores done, pop on over to the local probate court, take a drive over to that nearby cemetery and not kill myself playing catch up with all the other things that needed to be done while I was indulging in a genealogical craving. And if the superpower gods were truly generous, they would make it a two-fer. I’d get not only the suspended animation power with a simple nose twitch, but also that teleportation thing Samantha used to do by merely snapping her fingers. That way I could swoop on over to the Jackson County recorder’s office and look until my eyes bugged out for what happened to David Thacker’s land. Somehow I missed it when I was at the recorder’s office on my recent visit to Southern Ohio. Only unlimited time and patience will make me believe that the answer isn’t sitting there, undisturbed and waiting for me to find it – if only I had the time.

So how about it, you wouldn’t mind being put into a state of suspended animation for a good cause, would ya? I’d better start practicing my nose twitching - just in case. 

Until Next Time – Happy Ancestral Digging!

© 2 June 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Al and Terry Search for the Covered Bridges of Vinton County

At the risk of making you want to stick your finger down your throat as I continue to rhapsodize over my brand new love for all things Vinton County, I’m posting the remaining pictures of the county’s covered bridges 

While I was feverishly working my arm and back muscles, hefting around those large probate ledgers, my spouse was becoming buds with the very nice lady at the Vinton County Convention and Visitors Bureau. I swear I could drop that man in the middle of the Gobi Desert and he would come out with a newfound friend and directions to nearest watering hole! 

We had made a half hearted stab at trying to locate the Ponn Bridge the day before with less than stellar results. 

Me: “I think we should turn around.” 

Hubby: “What was your first clue – the dirt road or the sounds of Deliverance?” 

My Kentucky friend Linda, had given us superb directions to Curry Cemetery (Linda, we would still be driving in circles without those directions – THANK YOU), and at the bottom of the map she had included the covered bridge. Proving that Al and I would be the nice, always get along couple that you either hate to love or love to hate on the Amazing Race, we nonetheless failed our map-reading test. 

Al was trying to explain to the nice lady at the VCC&VB about our unsuccessful attempt when she too made, I kid you not, her own reference to “Deliverance.” Isn’t Ohio humor great? 

So, when my husband met up with me in the lobby of Vinton County’s courthouse, he was loaded down with all kinds of goodies to help us navigate the back roads of Vinton County. With all those maps and guidebooks, not to mention a pamphlet entitled, “Covered Bridges of Vinton County,” we decided to go for it and spend the afternoon looking not just for Ponn Bridge, but all five covered bridges in the county. 

Understand that the county apparently does not think it sporting to put up any signs indicating that you are in the vicinity of a covered bridge. Nor are they big on little conveniences like road signs – so while they might tell you in their pamphlet to turn onto Cox Road, you have no idea if the road you turned onto is indeed, Cox Road. Oh and Road 43 B intersects Route 32, three (maybe four) times and should not be confused with Road 43 A or 43C. (I know you think I’m exaggerating but trust me, I’m not.) 

In any case, Al and I found all five of the bridges and we actually had a great time doing it. The hunt took us all over the county, led us to some beautiful sights, and was just difficult enough to make us feel like we had accomplished something each time we found one of the bridges. Only one of the bridges, the oldest, Arbaugh Bridge, is open to traffic. Built in 1871 it was closed to traffic for 30 years before money was obtained through a federal grant to allow needed improvements. I don’t know what the price tag was for the improvements but it was worth every penny. It was so nice, we went through it twice!

 

If covered bridge hunting sounds like the kind of “sport” you might be interested in trying yourself, ODOT maintains a webpage with a map and directions to Ohio’s historic covered bridges that you can check out yourself. Going on a trip or live in another state? No problem. A website entitled “Ohio Barns” has covered bridge listings for 42 states as well as directions for unique barns such as Mail Pouch Barns, Ohio’s Bicentennial Barns, Quilt Barns, Round Barns and just about any kind of special barn you can think of to enjoy. 

Proving that once you start looking for covered bridges you just gravitate to them, we found, by accident, Byers Covered Bridge in Jackson County, and Helmick Bridge in Coshocton County. 

Until Next Time!

© 27 May 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder

Walking on Humpback Bridge

Last week, my husband and I traveled to Southern Ohio. My father’s paternal lines, former Virginians and Pennsylvanians, for a time made their homes in Ohio’s Appalachian region during the nineteenth century. Within that region lies the least populated of Ohio’s 88 counties, Vinton County. Vinton County is made up of forests, rolling hills, country roads, and small villages. In the spring it is a beautiful place to visit. Its southern most township is Wilkesville, which is home to a small village of the same name. It is here, in this township and village of the same name, that my Smathers, Cope, Thacker and Marcum families made the connections needed that would eventually produce me. The township is also the location of an unexpected treasure, a covered bridge. 

Vinton County boasts five covered bridges within its borders. One of these, nestled on a forgotten stretch of township road in Wilkesville Township is the Ponn Bridge. The bridge, which crosses Raccoon Creek, was built in 1874 by Martin E. McGrath and Lyman Wells. It has three spans, and is a combination of Burr Arch, King Post and Whipple truss designs. It is believed to be the only bridge of this kind still in existence in North America. The Ponn Bridge, or the Humpback Bridge as it is also known, replaced another bridge that had been built in 1870. The older bridge, The Barnes Mill Bridge, caught fire a month after it had been completed. The Humpback was not completed until four years later at a cost of $1898. The bridge, no longer open to local traffic, is unfortunately a magnet for graffiti artists, as you can see clearly in the photos below.

 

I tell you, there is something magical about walking through an old covered bridge that you know your great grandparents, as well as their parents and their grandparents would have also walked upon. I know – totally sentimental and sappy. But I loved every step taken, and my trip was all the more rewarding because of it.

 

Until Next Time – Happy Ancestral Digging!

© 25 May 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

My Toxic Effect

I toss my laptop over to my husband to read my “This Little Piggy” post to get his reaction. I watch as he reads it and see him smirk approvingly several times. 

“Is it okay?” I ask. 

 “Yup.” 

“You think it's funny, right?” 

 “Yup,” he says as he walks out of our living room into the kitchen. 

“You don't think it's too weird, um, talking about my feet do you?” 

Silence. Dead silence. I get up, run out to the kitchen, and catch him deep in thought. 

Finally, “Well, I think it's funny, but then I've been living with your sense of humor for a while.”

Holy cow, my humor is so warped that I've killed my favorite love's sense of what is and isn't funny. Be afraid, dear reader, be very afraid. 

Note this post first published online, April 15, 2008, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 15 April 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

This Little Piggy

Okay, anybody who has just eaten or is about to eat, back away from your computer right now. Don’t look left. Don’t look right. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. 

Now for those less squeamish, let’s talk toes. Yep, those ugly little piggies belong to yours truly. Normally, I try to shield you, dear reader, from the uglier aspects of my life. You can place the blame for this squarely on the shoulders of Lisa Alzo of The Accidental Genealogist or Jasia over at Creative Gene , or for that matter, the blame can be placed on my dad whose toes I've inherited. 

Lisa suggested the topic for this edition of the Carnival of Genealogy. “What traits run in your family? Which of them did you inherit? “And Jasia was all like, well sure, that sounds good. So let’s just take a little peek at my toes. (Haven’t been able to take your eyes off them, have you?) 

If you look closely, you can see that the second toe is longer than the big toe. My father’s toes have the same arrangement. When I was little, he said a longer second toe was a sign of intelligence. I believed him. In fact, in times when I have doubted all of my abilities, I’ve clung to the thought that at least I had the intelligence thing going for me. After all, I had that longer second toe to prove it. 

Turns out Dad fibbed. While this is one of the myths surrounding a lanky second toe, the toe itself is actually a deformity. That’s right I have a DEFORMED TOE. It even has a name, Morton’s Toe. There’s also a website, http://www.foot.com/info/cond_mortons_toe.jsp, which talks about the definition of Morton’s Toe, what problems it causes, and the treatment of said toe. 

I was happy to know that there are no sharp objects like surgical knives involved in treatment. The website suggests that those suffering from the affliction wear “footwear with a high and wide toe box” and notes that often, wearing a shoe a half size larger will “accommodate the longer second toe.” Hah! No wonder my shoe size was always bigger than my friends. It also explains why I preferred cutting my bare feet on sharp stones to putting on shoes as a child. 

Without the Carnival of Genealogy, I would never have explored this aspect of my being. I now know that I am deformed and probably as dumb as a box of rocks. Thanks COG, thanks a lot.

Until Next Time …

Note this post first published online, April 14, 2008, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 14  April 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

The Art of Painting Pictures

The little girl hurt. She thought she could hear her daddy's voice. She wanted to tell him about her pain, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't talk and tell him that her throat hurt. She opened her eyes, and saw the sheets of her bed and thought it strange that a hospital would have red sheets.

Her mother in the waiting room didn't have the luxury of her daughter's confusion. When she saw the nurse running through the hall, she knew instantly what the red soaked nurse's uniform meant. Something had gone wrong. She knew, as only a mother could, that the red blood splashed over the front of the nurse's clothing was that of her child. 

It was a simple procedure, a tonsillectomy. Children had them all the time. The little girl, 7 years old, had suffered repeated bouts of bronchitis, and the family physician had said the young girl's tonsils were bad and needed to be removed. It would be an adventure, the mother had told her daughter, and the 7-year-old listened to her mother's words and believed them.

Instead, when the physician finally came and found the woman, his own eyes laced with concern, he told her they were trying to stop the child's bleeding and doing everything they could. He shook his head, patted her hand and walked back to be with his patient. 

The mother stood there by herself. Her husband, lulled by the routine nature of the surgery, had gone to work that day. The mother dazed and in disbelief, waited until they came to take her to her daughter's bedside in recovery. 

The little girl looked small and fragile. The mother thought her heart would break. The little girl moved in and out of consciousness, only vaguely aware of her surroundings those first two days in recovery 

The mother left that first night exhausted, and came back early the next day. She stayed at her daughter's bedside, leaving only long enough to shower, change and occasionally sleep. The child, once reunited with her mother, felt the comfortable safety that she always felt in her mother's presence, never once understanding how close she had come to death. 

The child never saw, never felt the fear behind her mother's smile, she heard only her mother's comforting voice, talking of things they would do when the girl was better. The mother's words were strong, and the picture painted in the little girl's head so clear, that not for even the tiniest of moments did the little girl think it would be otherwise. 

Slowly the little girl recovered. The surgery, the hospital were just a bad memory for the girl, nothing more. 

As the daughter grew, again and again, as life presented each new difficulty, she would come to her mother, listening intently as her mother found ways to paint a picture of a positive outcome, no matter how serious the problem. 

When the girl grew into womanhood and the problems became larger, the mother's words continued to create positive pictures. Even when the young woman didn't believe, her mother's words were so powerful, so filled with detail that the young woman moved forward on faith alone at the sound of her mother's words. 

It happened when the young woman lost her own baby daughter. The mother drew the picture of another baby, this one healthy framed in the young woman's arms and it was so. 

It happened when the young woman, in the midst of a broken heart and marriage, listened as the mother painted the picture of another love, a perfect partner for the young woman, and this too became so. And so it went, the mother teaching the daughter how to paint the pictures in her mind.

It would come as no surprise that the mother, who for years had been painting pictures in the mind, now put those pictures on canvas, sharing her talent with friends, family — charming even strangers with her work. 

And the daughter, who had not inherited her mother's artistic talents, found her own way to create pictures, creating them with words. 

Though many women have had an impact on my life, none more so than my own mother. It has been her strong words that have propelled me through the rough times (tonsillectomies and all) and helped me soar through the good. 

This tribute is written for you, Momma — for your wit, wisdom and warmth and most of all, for teaching me to paint pictures. I love you.

Until Next Time

This post is in honor of National Women's History Month and the Carnival of Genealogy whose topic is to “Write a tribute to a woman on your family tree, a friend, a neighbor or historical female figure who has done something to impact your life.” 

Note this post first published online, March 13, 2008, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 13 March 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Confessions of a Three Year Old Descendent

“Papa Al is cwazy,” the three-year-old whispers to me just loud enough for his grandfather in the front seat to hear. 

“Hey!” his grandfather says loudly with mock sternness. 

This starts a giggle fest with the boy in the back seat. “I can’t stop waughing,” he tells me between gasps. “When I keep waughing I get da hiccups and den I frow up!” Um … Papa Al … consider yourself WARNED! 

Note this post first published online, February 21, 2008, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 21 February 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

Where were you?

The GenLady has asked the question — Where were you during each of the U.S. Censuses? 

U.S. CENSUS 1960 

I turned 7 years old on the official day of the census in 1960. I don't know what possessed the government to make April Fool's Day the official census day, but with me, it was just a matter of being late, as usual. You might say I “fooled around” until 18 minutes after midnight before deciding to make my first appearance into the world. My birthday and the official census have been linked ever since. My family lived in Fremont, Ohio, which is where you will find me each and every census. It was just my sister and I along with our parents. 

I was a first-grader at Hayes School. The first grade happened to be the year, and I might point out, the only year, that I threw up in front of the entire class. I had warned my teacher that I couldn't drink that whole bottle of milk, and I guess I proved my point. All of you did want to hear my throwing up story, right? Oh, and first grade was the year of my first mutual kiss, behind the bushes on the corner of June and Whittlesey streets. I'm not counting the kiss I was given by a certain someone in kindergarten, as we lay on our nap rugs, because 

1. I was HORRIFIED and 

2. Some little goodie two shoes tried to tell the teacher about it and I was DOUBLE HORRIFIED that I might actually get into trouble for something that wasn't my fault, unless of course, my being irresistible was considered a fault. 

You will be relieved to know that my promiscuity peaked along with my popularity in first grade. 

U.S. CENSUS 1970 

I turned 17, and of course, I knew everything. And I mean everything. I loved my parents but they were “square.” My siblings, two more had been added, were annoying. In that junior year of high school, my plan involved going to college to become an elementary school teacher and/or maybe saving the world. Important stuff to be sure, but my main goal in life that year was to have sleek, long straight hair ala Cher. 

I tried letting my hair dry naturally (as opposed to sitting under a bonnet dryer), rolling my hair into one huge jumbo roller on the top of my head, and ironing my hair — with an iron and an ironing board. If you think laying your head on an ironing board and ironing your hair yourself is easy, I suggest you try it. Thank goodness, it didn't work, or back surgery would have probably figured big in any future plans.

The summer of that year, I had my first non-babysitting job. I worked as a carhop at the A&W Root Beer stand. I got off to a rocky start when I spilled Black Cow down the side of one hapless customer's car. After that, things went well and I made good tips, on top of the whopping $.75 an hour that the job paid. I managed to save over $200 that summer, which my dad made sure, was deposited into the Credit Union — fiscal irresponsibility being akin to a deadly sin in my family. 

U.S. CENSUS 1980 

The 1980 census found me turning 27, married, with three children aged, 7, 3 and 1. A stay-at-home mother, those years are one long blur. I enjoyed being a mom, but the days went by too fast, and there were never enough hours in a day. I looked longingly at women who went to work and had an identity outside of mom. I didn't realize that they still had to take care of sick kids, buy groceries, run errands, wash clothes, pay bills and try to figure out how to stretch a dollar, IN ADDITION, to holding down a job and keeping another whole group of people happy. The grass is always greener, right?

U.S. CENSUS 1990 

In the 1990 census, we received the long form to fill out. I was really ticked at the time, because it was a pain to fill it all out. Al and I had been married less than a year, and all six of our children were living with us at the time. Between the two of us, we had six children, 5 boys and 1 girl, aged 10 to 17. We never had a table big enough to seat all of us at the same time, and in fact, the very first meal we had together was predictably noisy and chaotic. 

I had just doled out the last of the spaghetti, when the youngest one ran in the back door announcing, “I'm here!” Al and I looked at each other horrified. In all the confusion, neither one of us had realized that one of our little chickadees was missing. Oh yeah, we were going to be GREAT at this blended family thing! We still shake our head at those years with the whole crew. We always say

1. You have to truly love and like your partner to survive the stresses of a blended family. And, 

2. WHAT WERE WE THINKING? 

U.S. CENSUS 2000 

By this census, I was 47 years old and living in the country, half way between Fremont and Clyde, just my favorite fellow and me. I drove 45 minutes one way to work every day, and I would amuse myself by calculating how many weeks of my life I was spending on the road in a year. Ah, good times! 

I was working at a bank and my friend, a loan officer who shall remain nameless and shameless, pulled me into a corner the day of my birthday and said in a James Bond fashion, “Do you have your purse with you today?” My crazy nameless loan officer friend had me go get the purse. Then looking both ways and over her shoulders to make sure the coast was clear, she grabbed something out of her purse and shoved it into mine. I looked down, and saw what I would later learn was a Mike's Hard Lemonade. She had brought it for me as a birthday present. Mike and I have been good buddies ever since. Ah, Carole, I mean Nameless, I miss you! That's what I was doing during each census. How about you?

Until Next Time — Happy Ancestral Digging! 

Note this post first published online, February 6, 2008, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 6 February 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

A conversation with a 3-year-old

I'm pulling out a bottle of cranberry juice from my refrigerator to pour a glass for lunch. This is the first lunch that my Friday friend and I have had since mid-December. He's asking me what the bottle is, and I am telling him that it is cranberry juice and that grandpa thinks it's yucky. 

“Well dat not very nice of him,” the 3-year-old tells me.

Surprised, I laugh and agree, asking my young friend if he would like to have a taste of it. He considers it for only a second. “No, I already hab juice.” 

A clear definite no if ever there was one. Apparently, while he considers his grandfather's pronouncement on my juice not very nice, he also considers it very true. I missed the little guy!

Until Next Time ... Note this post first published online, January 15, 2008, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 15 January 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

An Unintentional Stirring of the Pot — My Response

Note: Terry Thornton of “Hill Country of Monroe County, Mississippi” did a blog post about my two-part essay on “Finding Grandpa's Grave.” His post, and by extension mine, hit a nerve with one of Terry's genealogical friends. The friend had “spent all weekend brooding over this topic.” Terry posted a wonderful and eloquent answer to his friend's intense response. In order to understand my own response you will want to read Terry's original post along with his comments at the following link: http://hillcountryofmonroecountry.blogspot.com/2008/01/putting-together-fractured-family.html. 

Terry sent me an FYI letting me know about his update. Having read what the friend had said, I went to bed last night with the friend's words and thoughts dancing in my head. This morning, I got up before work and wrote Terry a quick note with my thoughts. Terry has encouraged me to find a way to work this into a post. The following is a cleaned up, expanded version of what I first wrote — Terry:

I once worked in an office with a young friend who never had a headache. Being someone who has been tortured with headaches all of my life, never having a headache was difficult for me to fathom. My young friend would ask me to tell her what the headache felt like. She would say she wished for a headache just once, so she would know first hand how it felt. (Luckily, for her, we worked in an office and not a lumberyard. If a two-by-four had been handy, I might have felt the need to oblige her.) My friend, had no frame of reference, so no matter how hard I tried to describe a headache, the words would fall flat. I try to remember this whenever someone talks of things that I have no frame of reference for either. 

.My three siblings and I had very normal, very happy childhoods. So, while I would never be able to understand exactly the circumstances that caused Terry's friend to brood all weekend on this topic, as a fellow traveler on this road of life, I can be sympathetic and compassionate to his intense response. Both of my parents come from divorced homes.

 In my father's case, he is the first in four generations to complete the task of fatherhood. His great-grandfather had a leg amputated in the Civil War, and lived much of the rest of his life in continuous pain. He died when my father's grandfather was 14 or 15. My father's grandfather was 39 when he died — grandpa was only 6. (Grandpa had lost his mother 3 years earlier to consumption). And of course, for those of you who read this blog, you already know grandpa's story. 

I have always loved and admired my father, but it wasn't until I started delving into our family history that I realized what a quiet hero my dad is. How he figured out what it was to be a father, I will never completely understand though it didn't hurt that he married a wise woman. Dad not only figured it out, but he has done the job very well. Because of my dad and mother, my siblings and I had the best of childhoods. But, even with the best of childhoods, my siblings and I still each have flaws, still each have our own inner demons. It is the nature of life.

As I have said before, I believe there are evil individuals and I believe there are saints. Most of us live in the gray area between. Each of us does the best that we can, given the hand that we are dealt. Sometimes we make mistakes and sometimes we get it just right. Sometimes we soar and sometimes we crash, but most of the time we trudge — trudge, trudge, trudge. Without applause and only the occasional sympathetic hand, there is something almost noble in the way human beings keep putting one foot in front of the other. I hope that gives Terry's friend and anyone else for whom our posts stirred up unsettled feelings, some peace of mind. This is me, then, trudging. 

Until Next Time …

Note this post first published online, January 10, 2008, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

©10 January 2008, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

I Survived Christmas (Maybe I Should Get a T-Shirt)

Well, I'm exhausted. A month of preparing, two days’ worth of celebration and some heavy-duty clean up have left me tired with nothing to say. Yeah, I'm that worn out. 

Al caught the cold that I thought I was coming down with (thanks honey) and has told everyone within earshot of his voice that I worked him to death getting ready for our parties. On Christmas Eve, we had four generations of my side of the family and three generations of Al's. 

The next day was a smaller “party” for three of our grandchildren and their parents who could not make the previous night's celebration.

Noisy and chaotic, it turned out to be, in spite of all my fretting, a pleasurable two days spent with the people I love the most. It's at times like these I remember how lucky I am to have all the blessings that I enjoy. Isn't that what the spirit of Christmas is all about? Now, I just need someone brave enough to let my youngest sister know that we all voted to have Christmas at her house next year. Anyone? 

Until Next Time … 

Note: I will be getting back to the business of genealogy in the next few days once I (yawn) am rested up from all this heavy partying. 

PS for my brother: Did you recover from the piggyback rides you gave our grand nephews? Ibuprofen is a wonder drug. 

Note this post first published online, December 28, 2007, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 28 December 2007, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder 

A holiday meltdown

I'm on a short countdown for the family's Christmas Eve party that hubby and I are hosting this year. The number of people attending has shot up and down like an old-time applause meter, so that I no longer have any idea of how many dozens of buns I need to get, or how many bingo prizes should be wrapped and ready to go. 

We have lost running water to our house twice since Sunday, and the last gift that was supposed to be coming this week for our youngest granddaughter is now not going to be shipped until January, necessitating a last-minute replacement! Oh, and I haven't wrapped one present or put up the Christmas tree yet. And I think I am coming down with a cold. Atchoo! 

My husband, sensing my imminent meltdown, came home from work tonight and tossed a bag of Dove dark chocolate on the counter saying, “I thought you might need this.”

Heck yeah, I need it, along with a Valium chaser. I have this vision of people pulling up to a darkened house on Christmas Eve with a sign on the door reading, “The hostess and party have gone the way of the Dodo.” 

All right, now that the public foot stamping is out of the way I have a couple of miscellaneous items to share with you. 

38TH EDITION OF THE CARNIVAL OF GENEALOGY 

 First, the 38th edition of the Carnival of Genealogy is up and posted at Jasia's Creative Gene Web site. (I confess I cheated and was avidly reading most of the postings as they went up on each person's Web site.) The subject was New Year's Eve 1999. Of the 14 genealogy bloggers who submitted entries, only one turns out to be a true partier, which was our hostess, Jasia. I may have had the worst New Year's Eve night, but Bill West's (West in New England) post tells of a pretty lousy year. Then there's Terry Thornton's (Hill Country of Monroe County, Mississippi) remembrance of Y2K. Apparently, his concern over the millennium bug translated into a case of Spam among other things. 

For some enjoyable reading go to Creative Gene, and find the links to all 14 posts. BTW, what were YOU doing New Year's Eve 1999? 

A CHOIR OF GENEAANGELS 

Check this out. The Footnote Maven has made a collage of her genealogy blogging colleagues in the guise of angels and posted it online. Being singularly uncreative myself, I am in awe of her finished product. I feel definitely privileged, if not a bit miscast, to be included as one of her angels. Thanks Footnote Maven! 

And finally, since this will be my last posting before Christmas, I wanted to wish all of you a very Merry Christmas. May you and yours have the happiest of holidays. 

Until Next Time — Happy Ancestral Digging! 

Note this post first published online, December 20, 2007 at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 20 December 2007, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder

New Year’s Eve ... 1999

The theme for the next Carnival of Genealogy is the New Millennium. Jasia asked, “Where were you when the year 2000 came around?” 

My memories of New Year's Eve 1999 are a series of disjointed flashbacks, which I can't quite weave together correctly. The whole year before the millennium, the bank that I worked at had been worried about the so called “millennium bug.” You remember, when the clock struck midnight, there was a fear that programs in older computers would not recognize the rollover from 99 to 00 and would fail to operate. Our software vendors assured us that all problems had been corrected, but there was still that little nagging doubt about what would occur. 

To be on the safe side, Al and I had set aside a little extra cash, just in case. We went ahead and made our plans for our quiet celebration. You know the usual — a couple of good movies, some finger food, and maybe a little Mike's Hard Lemonade. Yeah, I know, pretty boring but that's how we roll. 

What we hadn't counted on was another vicious little bug that was roaming around Northwest Ohio at the time — the flu bug. Now there are all kinds of flu bugs, stomach, intestinal, or the kind where you swear an elephant has parked on your chest, and you're sure if you cough one more time they will have to tape your ribs. Well, this virus had it all, the works, it was after all, the Millennium Bug. And the little devil was headin' straight at Al and me. 

In the entire 18 years that we have been married, we have never both been sick at the same time. Usually one will come down with something first, and because we like to share, we pass it along to the other partner. This works out well, because the not sick person can wait hand and foot on the sick person. I, of course, prefer to be left for dead when I am ill, with an occasional, “could you get me the ginger ale before I die of dehydration?” Really, I'm no trouble at all.

Al, on the other hand, runs around saying, “feel my forehead, am I hot?” or “I've never been this sick before!” cough, cough. Implying that he wins some kind of medal for being the sickest a person could be without dying. Yeah right, buddy, that's an Olympic event I want to win.

As I said, we had never both been sick at the same time except for once — New Year's Eve 1999. And here is where things get a little fuzzy as I try to reassemble events. I remember, I started feeling achy and queasy when we went to pick up the sauerkraut balls. By the time we got home, I had the chills and the shakes. Somehow there were dirty dishes that needed washed, and Al, who was looking pretty pale himself, felt we should just wash them up and be done with it. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed, so I suggested that we just throw all the dirty dishes and pans straight into the trash. For a second, I thought my practical pragmatic husband would go for what I felt was a great solution, but no, he basically said to suck it up and let's get 'em done. If the muscles in my face hadn't ached as much as every other muscle in my body I would have given him my evil death ray stare, guaranteed to melt mere mortals to putty. But I couldn't even muster a grimace, so I went along with his plan and we washed and dried the stupid dishes.

Sometime after that, a car skidded and hit a pole a couple of miles down the road from where we live, and knocked out the power. Toledo Edison was quoted the next day, as saying that all the power had been restored in two hours — NOT! We were without power for eight hours and we piled on every blanket in the house we could find. 

At one point, Al decided that he should go start our generator, because we were already sick, and freezing to death is not a recognized cure for the flu. Our bedroom is next to the garage so I could hear him out there saying a not very nice word that my husband normally would not utter, and then I would hear a low moan. This went on for several minutes until he came back in the house, crawled under the pile of blankets and mumbled, “I can't get it started.” He was just too weak. My response? Moan, cough, cough, moan. 

In reconstructing this with my husband, we think this must have occurred the day before New Year's Eve because I can remember toddling out to the living room on New Year's Eve and Al telling me that the New Year had come and gone with no Y2K problem rearing its ugly head. Al, at some point had relocated to the living room sofa, because my moaning, shivering, and retching were not helping him to sleep and vice versa. I remember going back to bed and that's the last thing I remember until New Year's Day night.

By then the worst of the stomach/intestinal issues were over and I was left with coughing and that achy feeling. I know I missed a number of days of work with this flu, but everything else is rather vague. I do remember thinking that this did not bode well for my next 1000 years. And truth be told, some not-so-nice things have happened to me in the intervening eight years, but there have also been a lot of good things that have happened.

Three more beautiful grandchildren have been added to our family. My parents moved back from Florida to Ohio, and now live just a hop skip and a jump away. I finally kept my promise to myself to get my bachelor's degree, cum laude thank you very much. My youngest sister, who thought she would never be a momma, gave birth to a handsome little fellow who has his mommy's eyes. I found a job that pays decent enough for me to work part time, and I get to spend the extra time with one of my favorite grandchildren I've watched my three children grow into confident, compassionate adults that more times than not, knock my socks off with the people that they have become. And not the least, I've spent the last eight years with my best friend and love, my husband. 

So the moral of the story is, well heck, make up your own moral for the story. Yeah, the millennium and how I spent it — a real heartwarming tale. 

Until Next Time … 

Note this post first published online, December 14, 2007, at Desktop Genealogist Blog at The News-Messenger Online http://www.thenews-messenger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/section?Category=BLOGS02

© 14 Dec 2007, Desktop Genealogist Unplugged, Teresa L. Snyder