Despicable VS Decency


I have always maintained that politicians are in it for themselves and their pocketbooks. The people they are supposed to represent are simply an inconvenient part of the deal to go to Washington D.C. to make money for themselves and their cronies. Sitting on important committees is the main goal, because that is how they meet the movers and shakers with whom they make backroom deals for power. The longer they are in office, the less the people they represent matter and the more power has a hold on them. Those who are already corrupted become even more corrupt over the years and anyone who got into the game with an honest desire to help their state or country becomes more corrupt the longer they hold power.

Those backroom deals are their life blood, they are supposed to win every race, fulfill every deal, pocket money and power for the people who pull their strings. If they don’t, they lose what power they have, and money stops flowing into their hands. They will do anything, destroy anyone, climb over anyone in their way, just to keep their deals. Power and money are deeply addictive things, there is never enough of either for politicians and their backers.

The average American wants a good job, a place to live to call their own, and a safe, decent place in which to raise their children. They want their kids to have a good education, and to retire some day with a way to live comfortably. They want fewer taxes, less intervention from Big Brother Government, and to pursue Life, Liberty, and Happiness. They want their Constitutional Rights, including freedom to bear arms, worship as they wish, the right to free speech and a vote as a citizen of the United States of America. All are concepts we took for granted since the founding of our country until the 1970’s or there about. Something we no longer have because the leftists have spent the past forty plus years slowly and methodically taking those rights away from citizens under the guise of equality, fairness, and social adjustments in the way we live our lives.

No longer are we encouraged to excel, it makes it unfair to those who don’t or won’t have the self determination to do so. Therefore we must all fall to the lowest common denominator. No longer are we allowed to think for ourselves and form our own opinion and ideas. In fact, with common core forced into every level of education, our children are actively discouraged in their desire to standout or think critically among their peers. The outcome is making our young adults and children into fearful, inept, indoctrinated zombies to the system. The very things that made America stand out as a world leader in science, technology, art, music, intellect, and inventions are squashed in all children before they get out of elementary school. If Steve Jobs, Bill Gates and their generation were being educated today, there would not be Apple or Microsoft, because they wouldn’t have the stepped outside the acceptable lines and developed their products. That would be the job of the government, after all.

This past week we saw, the world saw, the way in which politicians will go to any lengths to maintain power and control the country for their wants. We saw how bitter losers of the last election are desperate to hang on to their control rather than allow a man who, by everyone’s definition, is a brilliant judge who lives by the laws of the Constitution become a Supreme Court Justice. They tried desperately to destroy a descent, honest, faithful husband and father, by refusing to follow the standards and rules of generations in the choice of a Supreme Court nominee. Instead of following the process, they used despicable, dishonest, disgusting methods to try and undermine a good man rather than lose yet more control to the opposite side. It was horrific to see a man have to try to defend a negative in front of his wife, parents, and, worse, his children.

The Senator who started this entire debacle, Diane Feinstein the senior Democratic Senator from California, purposely withheld information from the Committee to use as a last ditch effort to derail Mr. Kavanaugh’s nomination and approval for Supreme Court Justice. In doing so, she exposed not only Mr. Kavanaugh to ridicule, she also exposed Dr. Ford to the world as a slightly mad, angry woman who is obviously is in the control of the Democratic Socialists who will do anything to regain control of the country. Dr. Ford is now despised and held in contempt by any reasonable, thinking people not under the same control of the party of hatred.

There is no proof of the allegations, there are no corroborating witnesses, and there isn’t anything more than her non-specific, vague, recollection of a drunken teenage party in which she claims someone tried to sexually abuse and/or rape her. Suddenly, according to the leftists, an accusation is equal to proof, therefore the accused is automatically guilty of said accusations. There is no due process, no investigation needed, if a woman accuses a man, he should automatically admit wrong doing and pay the consequences of the accusation. Facts don’t matter, nothing matters but the word of a drunken woman thirty years after the supposed event happened. Thanks to the lies and what many consider criminal behavior of Diane Feinstein, Dr. Ford, and the Democratic Party, the rights of women have been set back three generations because now the real victims of sexual assault and rape will have an even harder time convicting those who are sexual predators.

Regular Americans, unless indoctrinated by the leftist education and the leftist government of past years, are watching the whole abomination of the actions of Diane Feinstein and her cronies in horror. Men and boys are now victim of a witch hunt that marks each and everyone of them as predators, no matter how circumspect they are in their behavior. If this keeps up, men will simply stop asking women out, and if they have needs will go to a professional sex worker rather than take a chance on being accused of something they did not do.

I find it profoundly embarrassing that Senators of our great country are willing to squabble like a bunch of idiots over how much a seventeen year old boy drank thirty years ago. The fact that they are willing to stoop to digging around in a High School yearbook and trying to make sexual innuendo out of what some teenager wrote in it thirty plus years ago is disgusting. I am horrified they are doing this in front of the world stage, and still expect to be treated with deference and dignity. They are becoming the laughing stock of the world.

I, for one, believe Mr. Kavanaugh is innocent of the charges, he has proof of where he was and what he was doing that long ago summer, unlike his accuser who can’t even remember when and where the incident took place. I think Dr. Ford was, and is, a patsy for the desperate leftists. Shame on her, and shame on them. May God Bless him, and anyone in the Senate with an ounce of common sense will stand firm and vote for Brett Kavanaugh to be the next Supreme Court Justice. And once he is on the court, I hope he continues to be a fair, descent, protector of our Constitutional Laws. Should he not be confirmed, I hope he sues everyone involved into the ground for defamation of character and anything else he can. But, he won’t do that. He is too descent a man.

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A Childhood Memory


When I was a little kid, my family went to a parade. It was wonderful. All the men marching in step, the tanks rolling by, all the armor, jeeps, and first and foremost, the flag flying high over everything. I remember the sky was bright blue, making the colors of the flag stand out, each color brilliant and fresh. A band marched by, playing loud and proud. When they passed us, they were playing Grand Old Flag. It was all so exciting. My mother kept us kids under control, but the entire crowd was cheering, like they were welcoming heroes home. It was the Fourth of July and we were in Germany in the early 1960’s. Somewhere among those marching men was my father.

I was too young to recognize the importance of that post WWII and post Korea moment. I grew up in the military, I thought everyone’s dad marched in long lines and wore a uniform if they were American. It was normal. All the kids I knew, except for the few locals in our area, had dads who wore uniforms. The women and children in our house area waited for dads and husbands to come home from “the field” just like we did. And everywhere we went, from the school to the doctor’s building, there was a flag with the same bright colors flying above it. It was normal.

When my dad left the military, I was shocked to see buildings without the flag, people without uniforms of any kind, and complete disrespect for any sort of organization. It was hard to become a civilian, I missed the comfort of normal. I missed the feeling of security I had always had, even in the midst of the cold war that could send us on a bus or train with one bag for our whole family at a moment’s notice. I was never unsure, I was never alone, as long as there was a man in a uniform like my dad wore.

One day, I was at school very early for some reason. I was wandering around waiting for school to open when I saw the janitor come out of the building. He unfolded a flag, and pulled it up the flagpole. There, against the bright blue sky, the colors of my flag unfurled. As the wind caught it, the flag waved proudly above the land around it. In my mind I heard Grand Old Flag, as the janitor stepped back and saluted with all the dignity and honor of a soldier. Tears came to my eyes, because to me, he no longer wore a gray shirt and pants of a janitor, he wore a uniform of a soldier, and I knew as long as there were men who had served, men who knew the value of freedom and sacrifice, we would be safe.

Today life is very different in our country. But still, men and women serve to protect what is ours, and our freedom. No matter what politics you hold, no matter what lifestyle you profess, no matter where you live, the military protects you. The flag some spit on, burn, and trample still flies proudly from front porches, flag poles, and buildings. Be it against smoke from a riot, storms, or skies of bright blue, the flag still watches over our land and our people. The little girl in my past and the old woman I am today salute them. In memory of all those who have served to protect our homeland from the Revolutionary Founders through today, Thank You and God Bless America.

Interlude


When we went out for ice cream the other day, a mother with identical twin girls got in line behind us. The girls were three, and cute as could be. Addie was so interested in how much alike they were. The mom was kind enough to answer her questions, and share information with Addie. The little girls were equally fascinated with Addie because she had on purple eye glasses and they wanted to know all about them, so I answered their questions. They did the twin thing of finishing each other’s sentences, and talking over each other in their excitement to learn something new.

Addie got her purple ice cream. I don’t know the flavor, it doesn’t matter as long as it is purple or pink. The little girls wanted the same thing. As the girls enjoyed staring at each other, I chatted for a few minutes with their mother about the usual issues of motherhood times two at once. It was a nice interlude.

The point behind this ramble is that it wasn’t until later that it occurred to me that Addie and I had a nice chat with a mother and her children who were people of a different color than we were. And not once did it occur to us that the differences might matter to anyone. We were just people talking about our lives. Addie is amazed at the thought of twins, the twins were amazed at the fact that Addie needs glasses to see better. That was all that mattered to them.

The mother and I simply exchanged mother notes with each other for a few minutes. I complimented her on how well behaved her girls were, she complimented me on how sweet Addie was. I told her I admired her ability to parent two three year old babies at once, and she said it was hard, but worth it. She admired the fact that we wanted to take our grandchild out for ice cream and how much we clearly loved her. I told her that we sometimes got worn out, but it was worth every minute of it. We were just women being women in a singular moment in time. It was comfortable, pleasant, and completely tranquil.

Addie and I have light skin, the mother and her girls have lovely coffee color skin. It didn’t matter. We were humans being humans, nothing more, nothing less. Had I been a hater, or had she been a hater, we would have both missed out on a nice moment in time. And you know, if people would just stop trying to divide themselves from other people through false agendas like race and status, we could all have pleasant interludes where we learn something about each other, have a laugh, and move on with our day more educated and accepting. It is a sad thing that so many want to used differences as a reason to be angry and divisive. Very sad, indeed.

Ten Minutes to Eternity


I love my husband. More than I did when I fell in, first lust, then love, with him forty-eight years ago. We were so young, headstrong, and sure of ourselves. We didn’t think about how getting married a year after we met would impact our lives, our families, or our future. We wanted to be together. And back then, even in the midst of the hippie free love era, we didn’t want to give in to the urges we had, we wanted to be a permanent couple. We wanted to belong to each other. So we ran away to elope on a hot June day. But no one would marry a nineteen year old boy and a sixteen year old girl. I ended up living with his parents while he lived in an apartment until my parents sent the papers for us to legally marry.

It was a warm, sunny, Sunday afternoon in August of 1971 when we married at a small church in Mill Valley, California. The reverend wasn’t happy about marrying two young people, but we made it clear if he didn’t we would find someone who would. Between Sunday services, we met at the church along with his parents, brothers, a friend of mine, and the reverend. In a span of about ten minutes, we were joined together as husband and wife. It was peaceful, and the only music was provided by the nesting sparrows outside the refectory.

After a few required signatures, photos, and a handshake from the reverend, we all went back to his parent’s house. They were, naturally, not in a party mood, so the Mr. and I changed into our jeans and boots, jumped on the Harley and headed down Miller Avenue to the local Jack in the Box burger joint for a meal. We rode over the Camino into Corte Madera and back along the back roads to Mill Valley. Later, we drove into San Francisco to the Hyatt for our wedding night. And that is all I have to say about that, other than we were both very happy, very in love, and very compatible. It was a beautiful day.

The next day we loaded up the Harley with our camping gear and headed to the Sierra Nevada Mountains to do some panning for gold for our honeymoon. It was a blissful few days, filled with laughter and the joy of knowing we were meant to be together forever. Eventually, we had to go back to the real world and face life as new adults. School, work, scrambling for money, paying bills, all that went with that set us apart from our friends our age. At the same time, we still had fun just being a young couple in love.

Years rolled by, children came, struggles came and went, we lost our oldest son, and we gained our first grandchild followed by more. Like all couples, we had our years of falling out of love and getting lost in the minutia of life, but we always found our way back to each other. And here we are, forty-eight years later, still married, still in love, and we still have that spark that brought us together all those years ago.

I love my husband. More than I ever thought I would. I don’t know where the years went so fast, but I know we lived every last one of them together. God willing, we will have untold years ahead. Who knew a ten minute ceremony would lead to eternity?

Small Goals


Little moments, small goals, simple reminders, things that make love a reality flitted through my mind while I was getting our Addie ready for bed. How fast things change in a child’s life. A year ago, bed time was a chore, complete with tears, tantrums, and frustration over the simple act of getting her to brush her teeth. Tonight, she got herself ready for bed, brushed her own teeth, put her toys away, and found her Zebra Bear to snuggle with all on her own. Instead of tantrums, we spent half an hour talking about her week, things that she asked about, and her big plans for tomorrow. Then she rolled over and went to sleep in about two minutes. Once I had a simple goal of getting her teeth brushed, getting her into pajamas, and into bed without a tantrum, and asleep within an hour or two. A year later, its a done deal. She no longer even needs a reminder.

I feel a bit, superfluous. But, proud of her too. She did it! She made that small goal happen. And now our bedtime ritual has morphed into little moments together where she does all the talking, and I no longer have to sit on my frustration and hold back angry words. It is simply a small moment in time at the end of the day filled with love. She is the third generation I have raised to this point of independence. One would think it would get easier to see them grow up, but it doesn’t. I want to keep her my angle baby for just a little longer. However, God, in his wisdom, made moms and grandmothers, so we could raise children to be strong, confident adults. Part of that process is letting go, entrusting them to God, and trusting them to be the people they are meant to be. It is so hard, but it is so worth it. Sweet dreams, Angel Baby, see you in the morning.

Well, There Goes a GREAT Program.


I spent 13 years in Boy Scouts as a leader. I have earned my Wood Badge credentials. When I retired I was the Assistant District Commissioner for our area. I trained men and women to lead cub and boy scouts and ran day camps for up to 300 eight, nine, and ten year old boys for 11 of those years. I LOVED scouting. My boys loved it. And all the boys I worked with in both Boy and Cub Scouts loved the program. It was designed to do one thing, to teach boys how to become capable men. It was based on teaching self reliance, team work, personal success, and the ability to adapt and use all skills to survive, advance, and improve themselves. It wasn’t all about camping, but it sure was about competition, excelling, and overcoming barriers.
Boys communicate and work in totally different ways than girls do. Since I think more like a man than a woman half the time (really, my brain is exactly 50 50 in the way it works), I understand men and boys. I speak the language. I get the way they work. And I can tell you, this whole allowing girls in screwed the entire reason for Boy Scouts.
I was also involved with Girl Scouts, I spent more time breaking up hateful, spiteful, pissy girls who were picking on each other than I EVER spent breaking up boy fights. And the girls NEVER let it go. Ever. From then on there were always two camps of girls hating each other. Boys worked it out with competition in canoes, on the rope climbing, and occasionally with their fists. Afterward, it was over. And they were friends again. It will never work having them together, not if they keep the same programs. Girls will hate it, and girls will rule. Now it will be nothing more than another junky club for kids. Mediocre at best, a dismal failure at worse. Disgusting. My boys would never want to be a part of something like that, especially if they were at the age where girls were just gross, alien beings.

The Music Goes On


This is a story told to me by my mother Jean Bonham Vandenburg

HOW THE MUSIC STARTED IN THE BONHAM FAMILY

O. C. Bonham played the fiddle. He met another musician, Clarence Rodgers, who also played the fiddle or violin. In fact he was a music teacher for Atoka schools and private students too. Mr. Clarence Rodgers was an accomplished Classically trained musician and was well known as a brilliant music teacher. Mr Bonham was a widower, who had four children by his first wife. Ida New. Two of them survived,Minnie Lee and Zed.

Minnie was very good on the organ and piano. She was a good vocalist too. Mr Rodgers taught her the piano and she played in church. Minnie eventually married and became the mother of five children, who grew to be talented a singers in church as well. Mr Bonham married again to Lydia New Trimmer and had two children, Oran Carl and Collie. Although Carl, as Oran Carl came to be known, survived, Collie died when a very young child. Clarence Rodgers taught Carl to play the guitar and other instruments. Mr Bonham, Mr. Gene Warren, the principal of Harmony School, Clarence Rodgers, Carl, and his friend Hardy Wilkins would gather at the Bonham house and play music during the winter when crops were harvested and laid by.

O C Bonham married later in life to Novella Burlison and they had had five children. Clearance Rodgers taught the oldest son, Orville, to play the fiddle too. His children are part of the Bonham Bluegrass family. Sara Ann, Glen, and Virgil all were talented. Their big brother, Carl, taught Ollie and Glen to play the guitar.

Carl liked ballads and the music of early Country and Western singers such as Jimmie Rodgers. His friend, Hardy, was a good musician who played for dances at the outside dance floor in Stringtown, Oklahoma that was made famous when the infamous criminals, Bonnie and Clyde had a shoot out where they killed a deputy and wounded the sheriff. Carl and Hardy were will known in the area and played for dances held in homes throughout Atoka County. His daughter can remember going to someones house and they would move all the furniture  out of one room so that could have room to dance. When the little kids and babies got sleepy the parents would lay them on the beds to sleep. When the movie, Gone With The Wind, came out, Carl and Hardy played during the intermission every night. Carl was a good singer and, thanks to Clarence Rodgers, a good musician, When Carl was first learning to play, if he missed a cord or made a mistake, Clarence would smack Carl with his fiddle bow.

The daughters of Carl and his wife, Thelma Bolling Bonham, also learned to sing at an early age. Jeannie Bonham Vandenburg and Jackie Bonham Hand, sang on a radio show that was recorded live from the Mamie Johnson school in Atoka every Sunday. They, and the teachers from Harmony decided to have a show at Harmony School to help buy new basketball uniforms, Jean and Jackie and the other students organized the show and it was a big hit in the community. It helped to get the much needed uniforms.

Jean married Eddie Vandenburg when he came back from the Korean War, He was an outstanding natural musician. Later, when he went back into the Army, Eddie and Jean were stationed many places where they always became involved with country music. They entertained at the military clubs and civilian clubs near by. They were asked to record and go on tour, but being a soldier came first so they had to let the opportunity pass. Both Jean and Eddie were song writers, and Jean continues to write today. They were both raised to sing traditional Country Music. Eddie passed away a few years ago, but Jean is still invited to sing at various venues where she performs now and then. If you get a chance to hear Miss Jean you are in for a real treat. She has had many years experience and has performed with many talented bands and fronted for many rising stars. She has some great stories to tell about the places and people she and Eddie have met.

They were parents of five children and who are also musicians and vocalists. The girls enjoy singing in church. Karron is a writer and was a choir director and, the youngest, Rebecca and her husband, David Barrington, often sing and direct musical events in their church, Eddie Vandenburg Jr. is good musician and a collector of music instruments. Some of Eddie and Jean’s grandchildren and great grandchildren also have interests in music.

With each generation, the music goes on in the Bonham family.

Women in the Salon


I went to the nail salon today, this time my nails are lime green. A very pretty and happy color. Addie will love them. The place was busy for a Wednesday morning. It struck me as I was getting my nails done, how very alike all women are when in the company of other women, no matter where they come from.

There were two women from Mexico, at least their accent was more Mexican than Central American. They were chatting about one of their boyfriends, and how much of a jerk he was at times. I had to look up a few of the words they used I had never heard before. I won’t repeat them, they were really quite insulting to any man. But, the conversation was very typical of what two good friends would talk about when it comes to a possibly unfaithful boyfriend or husband.

The women who work there are all from Cambodia. I can’t understand what they say, I don’t speak that language at all. But, they were talking about children since one of them took out her phone and showed the photos of her little girl to the others and the lady she was working on. Then she showed her to me. A real darling. So the lady doing my nails got her phone out and showed off her son, who is three, and learning to play the piano. No kidding, he is three and he can read music. He was cute too, and talented. We did the back and forth about how bright kids seem to be today.

All of the clients in there were Americans. Black and white women, from about 30 through a little older than I am. The younger women were talking about yoga, where to buy good leggings, boutique shops and wine. The older women were chatting about age related issues, children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. One lady had fourteen great grandchildren and another on the way. She won. The rest of us either had one or two great grandkids, or none.

It was so typical, familiar, comfortable to be in a room of women who were just chatting, being women all together, regardless of the fact that we were from different places, spoke different languages, and live different lifestyles. We all have the same things in common. Things that we can all relate to no matter our age or place in our lives.

Folks who know me well knows I don’t particularly like other women. I especially dislike snobby, holier than thou females who love to put other women down with their superiority and gossip. I loathe women who enjoy hurting others when they aren’t there to defend themselves. I tend to put females like that in their place as soon as they start their hateful spewing. It takes me a long time to trust any female because I have been hurt and used a few times too many.

Today was a pleasant interlude, refreshing, and enjoyable. Women just being women together, laughing, chatting, and talking. It was a good way to start my day. I hope that one girl dumps her cheating boyfriend, I think she will because she was past the hurt and on to furious. I hope the little boy keeps playing the piano, and the little girl grows up to be as sweet and pretty as her mother. I hope all the moms, grandmothers, and great grandmothers love themselves as much as they love their progeny. I hope they all left feeling as refreshed as I did and the feelings linger as they have for me.

Oh, and I learned where the best place to buy good wine is in town, and how much I can expect to spend. I don’t drink, but one never knows when that information will come in handy. Sometimes, going to the salon is a chore, sometimes it is just a room full of women being women in the salon. It was a good morning.

A Conversation About Cars with a Five Year Old Girl.


We were driving and the conversation between the Mr. and I turned to what kind of car we would like as the ultimate car (I already have mine), and what color we liked best on a car. To include Addie I decided to ask her what she thought about a car. The conversation went like this:

Me: Addie, what kind of car would you like when you grow up.

Addie: A Jeep. A pink one.

Me: What if you don’t like pink when you grow up?

(I got the look that says Nana is crazy and has lost the plot.)

Addie: Nana, I’m a girl. I will always like pink.

Me: Not a lot of cars are pink, they might be hard to find.

Addie: (In a some what annoyed tone.) Well, I can have it painted pink.

Me: Why do you want a Jeep.

Addie: Because my Barbie has one. I want one just like hers.

Me: Because you are a girl?

Addie: No, Nana. (Very annoyed now since I am not getting it.) I want one because I have blond hair.

Me: (Working hard not to show amusement.) Oh, so your car has to match your hair?

Addie: Yes! (Relieved I finally got with the program.)

Me: So, what happens if your hair turns brown when you get old?

Addie: Isn’t it obvious? I will just dye it back to blond.

Me: (Think to myself, Obviously? She’s five!) Oh, Okay. I guess that would work.

Addie: Yep. I have it all worked out in my head. It will be perfect.

Me: Well, that’s planning ahead.

Addie: Of course. That’s the smart thing to do.

The conversation turned to her favorite Barbie and why and that she needed to find one that could ride a horse and a Barbie horse to go with it. I saw a Christmas present list being formed as we spoke. She cracks me up with her grown up vocabulary and word usage. She listens to us too, planning ahead is our biggest thing.

It Is An Obsession


Genealogy started out as a hobby 40 some odd years ago. I got into it because my mother had always been involved in it for all of my childhood. Back when she started working on her family lines in the late 1950’s, it was a great deal harder to get information past her parent’s and grandparent’s generations, even with access to a family bible or other sources within the area. It took hard work digging through various libraries and court houses to find documentation to prove information was truthful. Letters had to be written and sent off to all sorts of people while following possible leads, and it took weeks, sometimes months, to get anything back. Most leads were dead ends, leading my mother right back to where she started. It was a long hard slog to get things sorted and the needed documentation to back it up.

It got easier with the advent of the computer age. Contacting the right people and various governmental departments became as easy as sending an email. It still took weeks to get information back, but it eventually found its way into the mailbox. Then along came sites designed just for genealogy buffs. It all started with the LDS Church and their site and spread from there. Eventually the grandmother of all sites, Ancestry.com, became available for a price, and people flocked to join. But just because it was on line didn’t mean it was always correct information. In fact, it just became harder to sort the truth from the gossip.

Here’s the deal, without documentation from or concerning the people you are researching, all you have is family lore, gossip, and something your twice removed second cousin’s half sister’s dad once said, to follow. Dates, name spellings, even names themselves are often wrong. And once it is taken as family history gospel, it just keeps getting repeated over and over, even if it is wrong. Documentation consists of things like birth, death, or marriage certificates. Baptismal documents, tax roles, census rolls, personal letters written to and by the people you are researching, even things like pay stubs can give information that will lead to the right information. All government documents are also gold to genealogists who are seeking the truth. Anything else is simply family stories that are unproven and will remain so until there is documentation to prove it.

I was fortunate to travel and live abroad. More than one weekend was spent following the family history trail. In England, I was able to visit one of the traditional family houses belonging to my mother’s family lines. Valence House, as it is now called, is in Debenham, England. It used to belong to the Bonham family, one of which immigrated to the young country called America in the 1600’s. The rest of the family stayed in England. It was a thrill to walk into a building where my ancestors walked. When I told the docent that I was an American relation, he pulled out the charts he had, I pulled out the charts I had and we found our connection. He practically did a Happy Dance, then took myself and my family into the rooms that were off limits to the public. It was amazing to stand in the library/study of Thomas Bonham and realize the deep connection I felt to the room. My biggest regret was that during our stay in England, I didn’t get to go to the Stanway House in the countryside where other relatives lived.

When I tell that story today, believe it or not, I actually have “cousins” who question its validity. Yeah, it shocks me too. Why would I lie about something so vitally important? I have found that some people simply cannot admit they might have something wrong in their information as well. By heavens, they are right and EVERYONE else is wrong. Even if we have documentation that proves them wrong Some people simply always have to be right. Kind of sad, that. Of course, when one becomes addicted to a hobby, no one wants to have to go back to the beginning and start all over. But I know I have on many occasions.

With today’s access to information, it is so much easier to get our hands on documents, photos, and to exchange all sorts of information. DNA has changed the way a lot of people look at genealogy. It used to be something only the old folks and the spinster aunties bothered with, if anyone did at all. Now even the younger hip generations are finding an interest in where they came from and who they are. While DNA is an overview of a person’s history, the details are in the documents that follow the family history. For instance, I know that my DNA says I have English, Irish, Scandinavian, African, Jewish, American Indian, and several other types of people in my blood lines. I am also 4% Neanderthal, and more of my family comes from Northern Europe than anywhere else. All of that is interesting, but it still doesn’t tell me who those people are as individuals. For that, I have to dig through a lot of information and then document it all to prove that it is MY family line.

My mother laughs at me when I whine. She had to do all of this by hand on her own while I have access to millions of records and people. But we agree on one thing, no one gets into our site on Ancestry. I am willing to give information on a case by case basis. Why? I got so tired of people simply data mining my site, without so much as a thank you. I got tired of people wanting to argue with me about information, even when I could patently prove that information with all the documents under the sun. I got tired of working so hard, and people saying, “Well, when you get it all figured out, I would love a copy.” But, they sure aren’t willing to do any of the work themselves. So, my mother and I agreed to share carefully, one name or connection at a time. It used to bug me when people were like that, but one person too many finally pushed that annoyance button one time too many. Ask me nicely, as the private sites on Ancestry say, and I might help you out.

Having vented all that, I am still addicted to my hobby. And I still have to go back and start all over on certain family lines all the time. It is frustrating, it is exciting, it is amazing, and it is always interesting to dig around in the past to find dusty documents and stories about the people who make up my family history. One word of advice, if you want your future generations to know about you, write a journal, send letters, or, today, write a blog so they know your words, thoughts, and feelings about everything. Cut and dried documentation is a good thing, but knowing you personally takes something more.

Back to banging my head against today’s brick wall, I know that there is a document somewhere about that guy. No one lives to be 86 without someone knowing something about them. Really, genealogy is an obsession.