Family history and the challenging photograph

I have been to Arkansas exactly three times. The first was in 1996 with my grandma. We visited her brother, uncle JD, and he drove us around the towns they grew up in. We visited their grandparents graves, and drove past a field that JD waved at and said, "there's a cemetery out there. We've got family in it but I don't know how. It's all overgrown. I have been meaning to get out there and trim it back but haven't gotten to it." I immediately volunteered to help, thinking the grave inscriptions would unlock family secrets, too young to yet know that's not how it works. "No," my grandma said. "It's full of snakes, ticks, and briars."

The second visit was in 2003 for JD's funeral. Now my dad was in the car with us as we drove the same route to tour the town. Again, a finger pointed at the old cemetery and it didn't look as overgrown as I remembered. I asked if we could go look. No. Snakes. Ticks. 

My third visit, ten years later. The grandma who kept saying no has passed and the Internet produced a list of everyone buried there, giving me the opportunity to figure out how they were related. I wonder if my great uncle would have been impressed to hear it was his great great grandfather and mother? Add two more greats for me, and I'm impressed. This man died when my great grandma was six months old. 

I needed the GPS coordinates to find it. I double checked with the landowners it was ok for me to go through their cow pasture. The lady said she'd forgotten it was there. "No one's visited it." I think the newest grave is from 1951 but most are before 1900. It was as overgrown as JD feared and then some. I had tennis shoes on, shorts, and ample amounts of bug spray. I carried a long knife with me, thinking I might have to cut some weeds back. I had no idea. 

The cows had torn the barbed fence down on one side, and I saw no other entrance. There were several flat elevated stones that had crushed, probably under the weight of a cow. I peered anxiously into the holes, expecting skeletons that looked like me, but only dirt. Other stones had been shifted by what I can only assume were fox holes. I knew these were the graves of distant aunts, uncles, and children, but the cemetery namesake, my gggg grandfather had a tall stone toward the middle. I was scratched, bleeding, and sweating by the time I found it, my shoelaces sealed in their knots by the briars, my shorts covered in the things, but the mulberries smelled sweet and there weren't many spiders, and no sign of snakes. 

Then the question of the photo. I had not considered the overgrown plants from 1996 might be trees by now. There was no shot in the direction I intended. After much hemming and hawing, I saw another shot if I moved the trailer and took down the more fragile mulberry trees. I also retrieved the World's Dullest Hatchet, which seemed to anger the trees more than cut them. But within a short enough time I had bent or broken enough of them to see the grave. 

It isn't what you expect for your ancestors. I don't know if any older ones even have grave markers. My relationship to these people seems entirely abstract. This man was 48 when the Civil War broke out. What would he think of me driving around, the whole country at my fingertips. 

Before I left, I did my best to try to repair the fence. It really needs new barbed wire. I don't know who is responsible for that, the landowners or the relatives. But I twisted some ends together and righted one of the posts; the other was too heavy so I did my best to string the wire across it. I don't know if it's enough for a couple more generations or not.

Galveston Texas

I have driven Alice through Texas before (the northern part. I long ago vowed never to cross the widest part again!) but I added eastern Texas to this summer's trip to specifically stop by my great Aunt P's house. She is my grandma's sister, who died 9 years ago (I still can't believe it). 

When I was little, my Aunt P visited California a lot and I understood she was my great aunt in a literal sense. She was always so warm and loving and treated me like I was the only kid in the world; I had no understanding how many kids, grand kids, great grand kids, and great great grand kids she had. That's just the kind of lady she is. 

I spent all day yesterday with her and her daughter E, who lives with her now. Aunt P's son, also E, but let's call him El, lives across the street, and came over after 10pm to share a couple beers and quickly announce I couldn't leave the area until he had taken me fishing, and what the heck was I doing staying at an RV park and not with them? So I am staying the weekend, as El doesn't have a day off till Monday. 

I took my time this morning packing up the trailer, sweeping her out and wiping down the counters to show her off to this branch of family they forced me to admit I haven't seen them in 17 years. 

Last night, Aunt P started talking about great grandma Ruby and how when she would visit, she wanted to go to the beach. P doesn't care for the beach but wouldn't say no to her mama, but she asked why she liked to go so much? Ruby liked to look for seashells. Some as gifts, and some to bury in her garden to add calcium to the soil. I thought, oh, my collecting is genetic! If Ruby didn't find a shell she liked, she'd buy some in the shell shops. 

This morning, I had to take Alice to look for shells one more time, even though I knew Aunt P was waiting for us. It was a beautiful day, and I got some nice pictures, and as I walked for shells, I wondered if I was on the same beach Great Grandma Ruby had hunted on. I passed a shell shop founded in 1910. It could be the same one she shopped 50 years ago! As I picked out a few, I suddenly saw a small orange shell, and realized it was the same one I'd found in the little suitcase she had given me as a child for an overnight bag. After 30 years, I finally know where it came from.

Shell hunting at night in Galveston.

Obviously Galveston has given up on the idea of sea turtles. All the beaches along the gulf and Atlantic have forbidden lights on the beaches at night so the turtles can lay eggs and the babies can find their way to the water by the light of the moon. Galveston has a well lit highway and Ferris wheel overlooking their beach, and I was not the only one who brought a flashlight down to check out the 11pm low tide. 

All the shells here seem to be made of brittle, translucent, paper thin material, and it is only with great care I could even pick them up without crumbling. But I had a lot of fun and was surprised by the number of animals I saw. 

This Angel Wing shell eluded us in Sanibel. No wonder. Most of the ones I found were broken. 

Now I will show you horrible blurry phone night pictures and try to convince you they're cool. 

I saw something long and wiggly and caught this burrowing shrimp out of his hole. I barely snapped this before he'd covered himself back up. 

I saw a jellyfish too, which made barefoot shelling by flashlight even more exciting. 

A blue fun crab the size of a salad plate charged a school of fish right out of the water. (These are not from blue fin but I will find some to post soon!)

I was so excited to find this eel with a face the size of a tick tack. What? You can't see him? He's right there!

Any better?

I was super excited to find this. 

It's a barnacle cluster with three or four different species on it from shot glass size to pinky size. It was beautiful! Alas, when I picked it up, my finger sunk into the distinct squishy sensation that is a sea anemone. A closer inspection revealed one of the barnacles was still alive. One jerk barnacle and one bitchy sea anemone and I couldn't have this beautiful ocean sculpture. Don't think I didn't consider killing them in bleach! But I couldn't. Would have probably taken out the color anyway. After much debating, I threw it out to sea. 

But like the old sailor proverb says:

If you love something, but your love will cause the death of invertebrates that will smell up your trailer, set it free. If it was meant to be, the sea will send you a replacement sans squishy things. 

Cheers!

Distractions - mushy

I'm lucky to have shared about 600 miles of this summer's trip with my fiancé, S. It's become all the more apparent to me we are well matched and I should get on with planning on getting married. I can't help being influenced by our trip and wanting to revisit our favorite spots--the destination beach wedding. 

Weddings are ridiculously expensive (new kitchen remodel, new car, or wedding...) so I hesitate. Decades of bickering parents have made me gun shy too. But I'm so damn happy with this man! (Still after three and a half years!)

Introducing Five Dollar Bike

A few weeks ago, I was rounding the back of the trailer and noticed Six Dollar Bike had been hit. The handle bar was bent but I was able to straighten it slightly. Enough for short trips, at least. Even so, from then on, it tended to swerve to the left. It wasn't until I risked a 4 mile ride that I really admitted how bad Six Dollar Bike was. It was cranky about shifting, had leaky tires that were a weird size I couldn't replace, was slightly short for me, and had a seat angled perfectly to be a pain on my bottom (I broke my tailbone years ago, and the end healed at a 90 degree angle, so my bottom is picky about seats). 

When S and I arrived on Sanibel, the wonderful attendant informed us we would be happier if we had bikes and she gave us the inside scoop on a secret Thrift Shop that was very cheap and only open 6 hours a week. I had Six Dollar Bike, so we went to find S a bike. When there were two bikes on the porch, $5 each, a his and hers, it seemed like Fate. The lady bike was rusty brown with a wider front basket (perfect for snorkel gear and beach towels) and the tires looked newer and fuller than my bike. It was taller and the seat was much more comfortable. I could ride it right away, the gears were not tight and cranky. True, they sometimes shift on their own, making Five Dollar Bike an automatic. We bought both and spent an extra dollar fifty on the bike rack nearby. $11.50 for two bikes and the rack to attach them to the car!

Next we went to the bike shop to inflate the air in the tires. They wanted $70 each to do a "tune up". We declined. S's bike's tires weren't in as good a condition and before we knew it, we were being charged $150 for new tubes, tires, and labor. But we rode the bikes all over the island, and my Five Dollar Bike made me feel I could ride forever. I want to ride everywhere on it, it's so comfortable. 

Back at camp, a maintenance guy offered to take Six Dollar Bike to the mail room and mark her as Free. When we left camp later, she was gone. May she serve her new owner well!