Of Links & Honor

For many years I have been the keeper of my family's archives. Photographs, papers, and other ephemera always seems to make its way to me. For many years I ensured it was all safe, if not completely organized. Beyond that I didn't do much.

Then a long-ignored photograph yielded an unexpected surprise. This photograph is a B&W of Charles Lindbergh with a man named Basil Rowe. On the back of the image was a note, from my paternal grandmother, claiming that Mr. Rowe was her first cousin. I should also mention - the picture includes the Spirit of St. Louis in the background. It is a press photo taken at the time Lindbergh was about to make his astonishing journey in said aircraft. 

Now...seriously. Who would believe that a previously thought of unremarkable family would have a cousin who would be in a press picture with Charles Lindbergh. My grandmother certainly did, to her dying day. None of the rest of us would buy it. Eventually the photograph made its way to me, the archivist, and I promptly forgot about it. Then one day it surfaced again and I, finally, got curious - who was this Basil Rowe anyway? And why was he in a picture with Charles Lindbergh? And why did my Gram have this picture? Not a copy, an original photograph. 

Capt. Basil Rowe -
original postcard issued by Pan American Airlines
source: www.clipperculture.com

So I started researching Mr. Rowe and discovered that not only was he indeed a first cousin - he is counted among the pioneers of aviation:

Capt. Rowe was a prominent pilot and entrepreneur, who became the first captain for Pan American Airways. In 1927, he founded West Indian Aerial Express, the first commercial airline that offered schedule service between San Juan, Puerto Rico, Santo Domingo, Haiti, Cuba, and the Virgin Islands in the Caribbean.

Gram, sorry we didn't believe you! It was truly an epic discovery. And one that lead me down the path of genealogy research to become one of the earliest users of Ancestry.com.

Over the years I have fiddled off-and-on with Ancestry. 15 years ago info was tough to come by making research quite challenging.

Then - records began to be digitized. Which started to flood Ancestry with information that included scans of original documents written by the original scribes. Or individual pages of historical records, websites, wills, probate information, birth and death certificates, cemetery locations, etc... And in the years since that flood began the amount of big data available thru Ancestry increases exponentially with each passing month.

Which turned me into an obsessed individual - spending countless hours on Ancestry, digging thru records, reading tedious details that turned out to be not-so-tedious after all. And that has lead to incredible discoveries.

For starters - about 65% of my entire family arrived in the colonies between 1628 and 1710. Of the remaining 35%, about 75% of them were here by the early 19th century with just three individuals arriving at the turn of the 20th century. I even have an aunt, thru marriage, who arrived in 1620 aboard the Mayflower...Remember Allerton (gotta love those olde English names). 

Once I confirmed all that - I leapt forward over 100 years to see if it was possible that any of my multi-Great Grandfathers might have served in the American Revolution.

Any? How about seven - confirmed. With a few more pending additional information. And that doesn't cover all the Uncles and Cousins. To say I was stunned by all of this would be a massive understatement.

I belong to an historically-significant family. Founding families of Kittery, ME, Portsmouth, NH, Hingham, MA, and Scituate, MA. There are plaques in some of these towns with my ancestors' names on them. 

My 11th Great Grandmother

My maternal 11th Great Grandmother and her sister, my 12th Great Aunt, were executed during the Salem Witch Trials of 1692. Yes, you read that right. Their names are on memorials and dedications all over that area. My aunt's house is now a museum. A third sister was also jailed during that time and escaped persecution as the fervor died down. Talk about surreal. 

And not a single person in my family ever knew about any of this. Or if they did it was never discussed. Which leaves me with the lingering question - why? Why not share this incredible information, why consign it to the dustbin of discarded memories? Why were there no documents saved of at least one of the Grandfathers who served at the founding of this nation?

Or the other men who served during the War of 1812, the Civil War, and WWI? Their honor buried away - forgotten.

I always loved my position in my family of archivist - proud of retaining the pictures and papers, thinking myself to be so forward-thinking to preserve this information. I never imagined it would take on such - significance to my life.

Now, more than ever, I am proud of the intense work I've done to uncover these people - the sacrifices they made to come to a wilderness and build a new life. The untold hardships each generation endured to keep that dream alive.

I am here because these amazing, courageous people made decisions to pursue something unique, something unheard-of, something BRAVE and NEW.

They will not be forgotten now. My quest to connect all the dots, to follow every family line to the oldest point of reliability, will be one I undertake until I die.

Oh yes and I'm also doing this for my husband's family. My next post on this topic will cover some of that history - and how it relates to mine in a unique and surprising way.

Learning

Well...hello there.  Long time no talk.

Long time...no anything.  As mentioned in previous posts, life certainly was more than challenging in 2015.  As the year comes to a close I have to be honest and say...

...good riddance!

I will be so very glad to see time move into 2016 that I might actually stay awake for it.  I can't remember the last time I was awake for the change in year - it just hasn't mattered that much.  One year moving into the next is just the passage of time; nothing particularly special about it. But the coming change...may be something I not only need to see but may take a picture of.  Whatever catches my eye at that precise moment - could be a throwaway, could be profound.  Either way - the artist within me will capture it in some way that resonates with me.

I'm not one to make resolutions but the coming new year may also be an exception in that regard. I've spent so long in a dark cave of depression that I have neglected my physical health.  I'm seriously overweight, I'm ducking doctor appointments and in general ignoring myself to the point of danger.

So the first thing on the personal schedule in the new year - beyond getting back into the swing of working after a 2 week break - will be to make a series of appointments so I can get back on top of my health.  Which should, in the long run, help with the depression, with general energy levels and desires to be productive.

And yes - we have been away from work for 2 weeks now. Part of it planned and part of it not.  I got my every-few-years-at-the-holidays bout of bronchitis.  Diagnosed 4 days before Christmas in fact; it came on fast and as part of this "New Life Resolution" thing I've got going on - I got to the doctor as fast as I felt the symptoms rising.

Drugs - are a good thing.  By the day after Christmas I was starting to feel like myself again.

Of course that's quite the loaded thought these days - feeling like myself.  I'm still not sure what that is exactly but I do know - unequivocally - that it has GOT to be better than the "myself" I've been feeling for years.

I lost my way a bit on the idea of allowing the artist within me to come out.  Too many upheavals in the past year have been allowed to get in the way of any hope on my part of immersing myself in the sacred sounds of the piano, the spirituality of needlework, the God-given gifts of my photography.

The storminess outside of me became the tornado within me; consuming everything in its path without regard for health, well-being, mental stability or even basic happiness.

I have willed that storm to subside...and am focused on that artist within again. To the point where I am working hard on the piece above - one of Beethoven's most beautiful piano sonatas - the 2nd movement of The Pathetique.

This is significant my friends - incredibly significant in my life.  Because this piece of music was once the playground of another pianist in my family - people I don't speak to or of anymore for so many reasons that have been the major part of that aforementioned storminess.

The Pathetique was this particular family member's favorite piece of music.  And whenever one of my music books would fall open to the notes of it - I'd run away in fear and anguish.  As if the very notes held my life's torment within them.

My friends - they don't. They hold nothing within them except whatever Beethoven put there and whatever I bring out of them for myself.

For. Myself.

It took such emotional strength to let my fingers even rest on the piano keys with this music open before me; such physical strength to tease the notes out of my very soul - to let that glorious music speak to me in my own language.

Not the language of pain or abuse; rather the language of a person slowly recovering.  A person learning who she is again.

Learning what it's like to feel like myself.

The Art of The Scars

Well - haven't had much to say in the past month or so - clearly.

Except that I've had far too much to say and no desire to articulate it in any way.  These have been darks times in my life, my friends.  Dark times indeed.  The very darkest to date.

Yet, now there is light. With constant prayer, being ever vigilant over my thoughts, my words, my every physical movement...

...I have finally reconnected with the joys in my life.

Wandering thru a dark woodland you are scared by every movement, every sound.  The very shadows hold portents of negativity and fear.  Each action you take is measured against the risk of a simple footstep.

It's exhausting. It wears you out like nothing else; your very breath becomes something to be welcomed and avoided in equal measure.

Frankly, my friends, I've been thru just one too many of these "dark times" in the past decade or so. I am so - over - these feelings.  I just want to - be me.

To even find out what that means...a new journey at an age and time in life when most people have already answered that question - who they are.

Since I have spent the better part of 10 years fighting off darkness, demons and the expectations of others...I am delayed in finding out what I expect of myself.

No more delays will be allowed. This ship is sailing and nothing is going to make me turn back now.  With God's grace, I found my joy again.

I found that part of me that can sing with abandon - on the inside.  A major stress point in my life the past few months has finally resolved itself; and in so-doing as revealed a clarity and truth that I didn't expect.

You see, dearest ones, my marriage fell apart this past summer.  For reasons far too complicated and personal to ever recount in any space of any kind - my 32 year marriage formed cracks that quickly turned into canyons. Divides so wide that The Oracle and I soon lost sight of each other.

If I'm to be truthful - these divides began about 6 years ago from forces outside of our relationship.  We never noticed those cracks; they were small, subtle.  Fissures deep in our souls that finally grew to a size that we had to notice, but choose to ignore.

Finally, the great canyons between us opened up and it seemed, for a long while, that we'd never find ourselves - or each other - again.

We fought - hard.  Like warriors in trenches, we were bombarded by our own inadequacies, our own faults, our own pains flung like grenades at each other.  And in between, long silences of such incredible anguish.

Darkness.  Devoid of light from any source.

But fight we did - in it to win it as the saying goes today.

With God as our commander and ceaseless prayer the only rules of engagement we had, we retreated in a haze to find strength to get back in the trenches.  Day after day, struggle after struggle, battle after battle.  We persevered with God's enormous grace we remained committed to this relationship begun when we were just children really...making grown up decisions that would reverberate through our lives for 30+ years.

And in a moment of such exquisite harmony and gentleness, joy finally broke thru the smoke of a marriage broken in two.  It's impossible to find any other source but God himself; speaking thru the all consuming darkness to tell me - Kris, be calm my child.  Words spoken to me in stillness many weeks ago, their impact finally felt in the past few days.

This marriage - that has defined my life for so long now - has been brought to beyond the breaking point.  And with God's love and strength to guide us, we have put those broken pieces back together.  The whole of the thing looks - different now.

Like the Japanese art of Kintsugi - the practice of mending broken things with gold. The philosophy that the breakage and repair is part of the history of the thing, not something to be hidden but something to be embraced.

Like this bowl, we will never be the same whole that we once were.  The canyons that we have repaired will always retain part of their own shape. The landscape of our marriage, indeed of who we are...those scars show a battle hard-fought and hard-won.

A battle born of true love, a fight waged to keep the total darkness at bay.

I am no fool; I know there will still be dark times ahead as we navigate this new way of being - getting used to the scars. 

Yet joy - has been rediscovered.  And it has changed, like the cracks in the tea bowl above.  My joy is different - and in many ways it is far more beautiful now than it ever was.

The battles have made it beautiful.  The battles have made me - beautiful.

14

She was but one of 2,996 innocent people whose lives were cut short by an act of terror so unspeakable in its scope that even now - 14 years later - it is difficult to comprehend.

Hers was a “soft” countenance and spirit – meaning that everything about her was kind, non-threatening, approachable - she was a perfect reflection of all that was good in humanity. She loved her family fiercely and was devoted to her parents. Those parents are dear friends whose lives have been ripped to pieces by the acts of monsters.

Her wedding to her gregarious, wildly successful fiancé was to have been early October 2002. By now there would likely be a child or 2 running around – she'd have made a wonderful mother, loving her children with a ferocity that is equal parts love and fear. Any child of hers would have been a much beloved niece or nephew and would have been deeply spoiled grandchildren. She was cherished by anyone who knew her. She had a thriving career – much sought after in the fields of real estate and finance. Her future was bright – filled with promise and surrounded by love.

The end of her life can be summed up in a few, meager sentences: Heather Lee Smith woke up at 5:00am on September 11, 2001. She kissed her fiancé good-bye as he snoozed and she grabbed a cab to Logan Airport. She went to the American Airlines counter to get herself on a stand-by waiting list where she was able to board Flight 11.

And just like that, Heather’s story ends. No more memories to be created.

The stories of nearly 3,000 other people ended on the same date – leaving a hollow place in the lives of so many. Think of how many people in your life would miss you should you leave them suddenly - think beyond your family, to your friends, coworkers, the guy at the coffee truck who always gives you a kind smile with your morning shot of caffeine. Is it 10, 20, 50, 100, 200 - likely more? Each one of us touches a few hundred lives in the course of our existence – multiply your own “number” by 2,996 – the number of actual victims of 9/11/01. It’s more than staggering isn’t it – all those people with a howling void in their lives.

Like so many others there isn’t a grave for Heather’s family to tend; no final resting place the family can visit for holidays, birthdays or no special day in particular; no place to leave Heather’s favorite flower - the humble sunflower.  No physical place to ensure she is never forgotten. For her parents and their family & friends there will be nothing more than a marble panel or granite sculpture at a public museum to mark the final resting place of their much loved daughter. They have their memories of a life cut short at age 30; her mother once said to me that the hijackers stole her future.

As I have said in years past – we talk of these things, these unpleasant things like the pain and suffering and terror of the passengers, the nightmares in the WTC when people jumped rather than be trapped when the buildings collapsed, the brave souls on Flight 93 who forced the hijackers to die never reaching their target – so that we remember. 2,996 lights were extinguished by pure evil and we must remember them; we must show great courage in remembering them, for the memories can be so painful.

But remember them we must. For their sake, and ours. We must remember the sacrifice they made unwillingly. We must remember those who perpetrated this crime against the innocent people of our country. We must remember the pure nature of the victims and the evil nature of their killers.

Remember them we will – as Americans we share the burden of grieving for the victims of 9/11/01 and their families. If we forget Heather or the other victims, or if we abandon their families & friends, we do so at our peril.

The Weekly Muse

I have been told I'm mercurial, a real free spirit.

I choose to take that as a compliment...because sometimes I think it's someone's nice way of telling me I'm moody.  I prefer to think of it as being hard to pin down.

The truth is - my moods are, in many ways, like the tides. Reliable, shifting with the pull of an external force.  Extreme highs, far out lows.  I do my best to find the middle ground that keeps me focused and balanced.

This past week has proven to be an impossible task. I am - definitely off-balance today.

The Oracle suffered an eye injury at the hands of a new eye doctor; a 4mm corneal tear.  He said it felt like he had broken glass in his eye - poor man!  Since Tuesday this has been a bad scene - eye gel every 4 hours to stave off infection; eye patches, lots of sleep & rest.  The Oracle doesn't do "sick" very well and this past week has been awful for us both. (Yes, there will be a complaint filed with the State once The Oracle is given the all clear; a poorly trained, unlicensed member of the doctor's office performed an eye pressure test with a machine that actually touches the eyeball; took her SIX tries to get the right contact...in both eyes. It's a major miracle that she didn't tear both his corneas - which would have left him, essentially, blind for about 5 days...moron.)

All I see turns to brown, as the sun burns the groundAnd my eyes fill with sand, as I scan this wasted landTrying to find, trying to find where I've been.

I can relate.  We really do have a scorched earth situation in my mind; aggressive music is the order of the day for certain.

My job - well, it nibbles away at me some days. Most of the time I can restore myself on the 45 minute commute to our oasis of a home but others days, like yesterday, the sum total of myriad stresses of the week took their toll during that commute.

By the time I got home I felt like those nibbled pieces would never return, leaving craters on my body in their wake.  I walked thru the house, darkened the bedroom, laid down and slept for an hour.

I never do that.  Maybe a 15 minute lie-down after work but not a full out, dead sleep nap. And I slept for 10 solid hours last night (though I confess that was aided by the ever-delightful little dark peach colored pill known as - Ambien).

Today I'm not feeling much better, to be honest.  My mood is very low; I feel abused - like I've been spit out as an unsavory appetizer by a whale shark.

How's that for poetic.

Abandoned tanker car in a defunct railway yard in northern VT

Aggressive. Abandoned. 

Yup - mood is very low indeed.  

Anyway, back to the job.  I am an Executive Assistant to a Fortune 100 senior level executive. He is demanding, can be either extremely fair or incredibly unfair; he is also a little mercurial - one day he's an open book, the next he's closed up tight.  It's taken me over 3 years to train him to even see that I'm there, that I am more than just a body at a desk.  Once I got him to figure that out, it's been a pretty good gig.

His management team is amazing.  Six other senior-level executives whom I support in varying ways and who all show me their appreciation each and every day.

In all this - I am blessed.  Sometimes they can each be proper wankers - but can't we all.

It's the staff or the people outside of our area who can eat me alive.  They don't let me do my job; they think they know better or they just beat me up until I give them the answer they want.  In fact, the more someone chews away at me to get what I can't give to them, the less likely I am to try to find a workaround for them.

They fail to recognize that since the "big boss" believes I walk on water - then I do.  He trusts me to do my job, to know my shit and to only bring things to him when I feel I've exhausted all other options.  I do far more than manage 7 calendars, answer phones & schedule meetings.

I do all the office management for the needs of nearly 90 people.  And I don't screw up...ever.  I'm one of the best in my division, indeed one of the best in the company. I've had nearly 9 years to build up my reputation as someone who lets nothing fall thru the cracks, who is always prepared for every eventuality and who is usually one step ahead of everyone else.

And the staff - they know this.  Yet there is always a group of them that think they can pull one over on me, go over my head to get what I won't or can't give them.

Trust me - my boss and his directs don't like to play that game, especially when it comes to me. Because they know I don't lie and I move heaven & earth for everyone, all day long.

It's nice to know they have my back that way yet it is utterly exhausting to deal with these people day in and day out.

I never opened myself this wayLife is ours, we live it our wayAll these words I don't just sayAnd nothing else matters

At the end of such days as these lately, The Oracle is my soothing balm; he calms me with his presence.  His words of comfort - are just the right thing that smooths my ruffled feathers and brings down the anxiety.

And he wasn't able to be there for me this week.  Not his fault - not at all!  He was suffering, poor man, and I hated to see that.  On top of everything else - it's just been...

...a wasteland.  And so here I am, pouring my heart out to the Internet.  Putting the words out into the void in the faint hope that they will leave my heart and mind, giving my soul some rest.

Meh.

Weekly Muse

Time.

It's an ephemeral concept; fleeting yet slow all in the same breath.

There are days when you feel as if you've counted every minute on the clock. I find those days usually happen...at work.

***le sigh***

Then there are the days that go so fast it's as if they finished before they even started.

This past Friday was such a day.  For we went to a wedding Friday evening - an event so romantic that it brings tears to my eyes just thinking about the experience.

The bride - a very dear and close friend from work - spent the past 13 months planning the wedding she had been dreaming of since she was 7 years old (she's now 31).  I'm fairly certain that the time of those months, to her, definitely felt like they finished before they started.

She worked so hard on this wedding to create the perfect memories for her, her new husband and her family & friends.

She exceeded even her own, wildest expectations.

From the ceremony to the cocktail hour to the meal to the music - and every possible detail in between, this really was a wedding to be put in the spotlight.

The bride, never a conformist - walked down the aisle on her beloved father's arm to this song.  Knowing the story of the bridge & groom, this song is the epitome of their meeting, their courtship and their wedding.

And, I suspect, their entire marriage will play out this way every single day.  Because the love they hold in their hearts for each other eclipses everything around them - but at the same time welcomes you into that precious inner circle of beauty and truth.

And as they wing their way to their romantic (of course) honeymoon in a tropical paradise, my heart fills with gratitude that this beautiful young woman - inside and out - is my friend.

No - that's not quite enough.

She is a friend - we laugh, share stories, tell each other deep dark secrets.  And yet she is more - like a  daughter I think - she holds a special place in my heart.  One that has never been filled before.

Like a friend - when she got engaged I was giddy with happiness for her.  But like a daughter - I was so pleased that she found a man who would cherish her and treat her like the princess she deserves to be in his life.

Like a friend - I ooh'd and aah'd over the wedding plans as she revealed them to me.  But like a daughter - she made me so proud of her attitude about marriage, about her maturity and commitment to her childhood dreams to make this wedding the fairytale of her dreams.

Like a friend - I grinned from ear-to-ear to see her walk down the aisle.  But like a daughter - she made me burst with joy at her happiness.

Her wedding was a fairytale and she was the princess of every little girls' dreams.  The force of her personality brought it all about - and it will ensure that her life with her new husband will be filled with the richness of their love, respect and adoration for each other.

And me?  I get to be caught up in their magic.  And just thinking about that makes me cry again - in joyousness for their new life together.

And...as time goes by my only wish for this wonderfully special young woman is that her marriage is half as happy as mine is.

Because that is the true gift I could give her - the example of my own marriage to my beloved Oracle; the happiness we share, the compromises we make and the joining of two people into one life together.

Because 30 years from now, my beautiful friend will still be married to the man of her dreams and she will look back in wonder at how time...

...flies.

And it can be so much fun.

Remembering

Memorial Day.

It's not about the latest white sale or the deal you can get on a car.  And really, as much as we enjoy it, it's not about the 3-day weekend.

It's about honor. Sacrifice. Remembrance.

And 10 years ago I learned that a member of The Oracle's family made the ultimate sacrifice during WWII.  The only reason we know about this is because I was working on a family pictorial project and asked for access to The Oracle's parent's family photographs.

Mixed in was this image:

Nothing was written on the back of the image - no names, no dates.  Clearly a WWII-era image but who was this adorable young couple?  And why were they in the family photo boxes?

My MIL was able to shed some light on it.  This is Uncle Albert Dentino.  My MIL's mother's brother.  I asked what happened to Uncle Albert?  We'd never heard of him before - including The Oracle.

The answer...he died in a foxhole in France during WWII.

That's it.  Succinct and pretty much devoid of emotion.  When asked, we were told that the family NEVER discussed Uncle Albert.

And with that - my heart broke for Uncle Albert.  His life, his sacrifice - forgotten by his family for 60 years until this old, wrinkled picture was discovered, buried in a box of photos long-since consigned to the bowels of an attic overflowing with junk.

Including, somewhere, the Purple Heart that was awarded to the family.  Lost in the mire of family mementos.

We restored the photo thru scanning and PhotoShop - bringing out the details in the uniform, in Uncle Albert's face.  And thus began my quest to preserve his sacrifice.

I've learned much in just the last couple of years.

Pictured above: Uncle Albert with a Christmas tree, we believe at age 15 or 16

Albert Dentino enlisted on January 16, 1941 - nearly one year before Pearl Harbor.  At a time when the U.S. wasn't involved in the war; indeed we were doing our best to stay firmly out of it.  Yet this 19 year old young man enlisted in the Army National Guard, Company K, 328th Regiment, 26th Division.  His motivations are lost to time of course. Like so many of his time, Albert finished 2 years of high school and dropped out.  Perhaps he joined because he was bored and hoped the military could give him a future.  He wouldn't be the first to do that and he wouldn't be the last.

Yet - I believe in my heart he did it because he knew, like so many others, than the U.S. couldn't stay out of the war for much longer and he was going to be trained and ready when duty firmly called him to action.

On December 22, 1942 his older brother, Rocco, would also enlist in the Army.  And with that, the only 2 sons of an immigrant family - indeed the first Americans in that family - would be off to put their lives on the line for their country. 

I haven't been able to track where the boys began their journey; some records say Rocco was sent to Ft. Devens.  There is no mention of where Albert went.  And since Rocco survived the war I haven't found much on where he served overseas.

In fact, the only reason I know Albert died in France is because my MIL told me.  No records I've found, yet, give the actual location.  I do know that PFC Albert J. Dentino died on December 10, 1944 - barely three years after he was likely sent overseas.

I also know that he never came home.  I found a scanned image of a request, by his father, for a gravestone.  The request was submitted a staggering 5 years after Albert died.  And it's for a gravestone only, specifically indicating it is a marker for a body whose location is unknown.

And with that, Albert's story ended. 23 years old, single, no dependents. And a family who never mentioned him because the pain of the loss was so great.

I have more to find out about Albert's service, chief among them a desire to get a replacement Purple Heart.  I've done the research and it seems you need to be immediate family; yet no immediate family survives him at this point.  The only connection is my MIL, Albert's niece.  I haven't given up on this and intend to enlist the assistance of friends who might know how to get this done.

Because Albert J. Dentino deserves to be remembered.  He was a young man with a whole life ahead of him who, instead, choose to join his country's military to fight the good fight, preserving the freedoms his family made their own sacrifices to attain.

Honor. Sacrifice. Remembrance.

For Great Uncle Albert - who is no longer forgotten, whose courage and commitment to his country will be remembered as long as there are people to tell his story to.