Christmas 2019

Christmas 2019

I was going to try to write a clever Christmas letter this year. I had something in mind like, “When does 1+1=6?” and then talk about Kyle and Macey’s engagement. It’s really a beautiful story, but time got away from me, and I accidentally put the cards in the mail before I could write something. I didn’t want to let this year pass without a letter, even if it is only to myself and future generations, so here goes…

The phone rang at 3 a.m. my time Dec. 27 of last year. It always freaks me out whenever that happened. Kyle was on the other end, calling from Bali, Indonesia.

“Mom,” he said, “I’m so nervous! I’m gonna ask her tonight but I don’t know how. Do you have any suggestions???”

As my heart rate slowed, and I pulled myself out of my fog, I couldn’t help but smile. My son was calling me from Bali for advice on how to ask the love of his life to marry him.

“What are you thinking?” I said.

Kyle is a man of grand gestures and wanted to make this proposal a big deal. There was a dinner for two option on a secluded beach that he was thinking about, but that cost a ton of money, and he didn’t have it. 

“You know Macey wouldn’t want you to spend that much money,” I said. “What else?”

“Well, I could do it on the beach at sunset, “ he said.

“Great idea,” I replied, and we talked about how he could make a proposal on the beach at sunset even more meaningful and romantic.

I wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. There was no doubt in my mind that Macey would say yes. She had picked out the ring. Kyle had ordered it and had it shipped to our house since he couldn’t have it shipped to Laos. After it got delivered to the wrong address and went missing for several days, I handed it off to Macey’s mom, Amy, who was flying to Bali to spend Christmas with them. Amy passed the ring to Kyle, and he arranged for Amy and Meredith, Macey’s sister, to be hanging out in the shadows when he proposed. Meredith was able to take some amazing photos of them as Kyle got on his knee to propose. 

Of course, Macey said, ‘Yes,” and we are so happy to add her to our family!

The girls are doing great. Claire became one of 10 Gaines Fellows at UK this year. It is quite an honor to be selected! She has an internship at the Special Collections library, where she is researching and cataloging the creation of Red River Gorge. She also works at the rock wall at the rec center and climbs whenever she gets the chance. We are so proud of all she has accomplished so far.

Emily continues to ply the boards. She was in West Side Story, All Shook Up, And Then There Were None, and Oklahoma! this past year. She teaches dance at JoAnn Fryrear’s, works at Graeter’s, and volunteers for StageOne. She was awarded the Ursuline Education Network Service Award this spring for all of her volunteer work and has made it to the state level for consideration for the Prudential Community Service Award. She’s currently trying to decide on a college, hoping to get a BFA in Musical Theatre.

Kirk and I are eyeing an empty nest and wondering what we will do next. It’s pretty daunting in my mind, but I’m sure that wherever life takes us, it will continue to be a great adventure!

Broken but Beautiful

It's 10:20 on Thanksgiving night, so of course my thoughts are of Easter.

It was the early 70's, and every week, my mom and my grandma would go to ceramics.  My mom painted something for everyone and every holiday.  For herself and my other grandma, she made a big green Christmas tree that lit up with little plastic lights.  My sisters and I fought over who got to put the lights in the holes each year.  Mom made a full-sized jack-o-lantern and an Easter bunny and a Santa head candy dish and an Easter baskets with a lid that she put jelly beans in every year.  She made a snow house that also had little lights that lit up and a pumpkin candy dish and mugs for my sisters and me that looked like a the pocket on a pair of blue jeans.  

But my favorite and most treasured item that she ever made was a ceramic Easter egg.  Each of us girls got one.  Mine was purple, Colleen's was pink, and Jennifer's was blue.  Mom glued ceramic flowers and leaves on the top of the eggs, mine were dogwood flowers, and a bunny sat on top in the middle.  The lid of each egg lifted off, and we would put Easter grass inside and put them out with our baskets every year.  The Easter bunny would leave little treats in them, like Santa did with our stockings.

I don't remember when I took mine home with me, but after Mom died, it became one of my most precious items.  It's signed, "Love, Mom 1973" on the bottom.  I was so afraid it would break, that I didn't pack it away with my regular Easter decorations. Instead, it sat on the top shelf in the bottom cabinet of my hutch next to the music box my grandma bought for me the year she died, a glass pumpkin Emily blew with her "one digit breath" on her 9th birthday, and a Christmas rocking horse music box Mom gave me that plays "Toyland," a song that even made me cry when I was a little girl.  During the Easter season, the egg sat on the mantle up and away from the possibility of anyone knocking it off the end table.  I lived in fear that it would break.

And break it did.  

This week, I needed some dishes from the same cabinet, bottom shelf, where my egg lives most of the year.  When I opened the door to get them, the egg fell out and shattered.  Some papers from the drawer above it had fallen out the back of the drawer and onto the top shelf, pushing the egg to the edge and out onto the floor when the door was opened.

I cried.  Forty-six years of Easters flashed before my eyes as I looked at the egg in pieces on the floor.  My sister helped me gather them up and put them on the hutch.  Tonight, I decided to try and glue them back together.  The pieces didn't fit together exactly right.  No matter how many ways I tried to maneuver things, I couldn't get them to fit smoothly. You can obviously see the lines where the pieces are glued, and there are little spaces where the ceramic turned to dust when it broke.  But it's back together.  The rabbit is once again sitting in the middle of the dogwood flowers, smiling just like he always did.

I think there is a life lesson in here somewhere, something about life knocking us around sometimes when we least expect it and breaking us into pieces.  About putting ourselves back together, even if the pieces don't fit perfectly, and you can see the scars where we've been hurt.  I think when I put this out next Easter, on the mantle, I will think of my mom and myself, and the things we've been through in our lives and how even though we've been broken time and again, we were and are still beautiful.

Rub-a-dub-dub...

So I tried my hand at making soap yesterday.  The old-fashioned way with lard.  And homemade lye from ashes.  On a fire.  In a cast iron pot.  Yes, I know I can buy soap at the store, but this is for my work at Locust Grove.  I'm trying to learn to make soap the way it would have been done in 1816. Plus, if we ever have to live off the grid, at least we will be clean!

Anyway, I trained one day last week at Squire Boone Caverns.  The lady I worked with was very nice, and I learned a lot of things I didn't know like about the caustic nature of lye and how to counteract it if you get some on you accidentally (wipe with vinegar) and how to tell if the soap mixture has come to "trace" and is ready to pour.  Unfortunately, because their soap is made to sell commercially, she has to use commercial lye, which comes in flakes and is measured to the 100th of an ounce on a digital scale.  It's sodium hydroxide and not potassium hydroxide, which you get from ashes, so that wasn't going to help me.  She also measures the temperature of the solutions with a thermometer to make sure they are within 10 degrees of each other.  Obviously, I can't use commercial flakes, a digital scale or a thermometer when I'm in 1816, so I had to turn to YouTube.  I watched several videos on how to make soap the REALLY old-fashioned way, and after several hours of viewing, I decided to give it a shot.

I had collected about 1/3 a 5 gallon bucket of ashes from our fire pit.  I screened them through a sieve to get the big chunks of ash out and then added both distilled and rain water.  Then I let it sit for 10 days.  The way to see if the solution is strong enough for soap is to put an egg in it, and if the egg floats, it's ready.  I tried the egg test on the water in the bucket, and the egg sunk to the bottom of the water, so I knew I had to cook the mixture down to get the lye solution strong enough to make soap.  Yesterday, I got a fire going to get some good, hot coals in the fire pit, and then I poured the water into my cast iron pot that I bought specifically for soap-making and put it on the fire to cook down.

Lye water 

Getting ready to cook down

Strengthening the solution

I had vinegar ready in case any lye got on me accidentally, and I did feel a little burning on my wrist at one point.  I wiped some on the spot with a rag, and it neutralized it right away.

The lye solution cooked for about 2 hours.  I tried the egg test several times, but the egg kept sinking to the bottom of the pot.  After the solution was down to about 1/4 of what I started with, I tried the egg again, and this time, it floated and I saw about a quarter-size piece of the egg sticking out of the top of the solution.  I figured this was close enough.

The egg floating in the lye solution

I needed to strain the lye, so I used an old t-shirt.  I should have used muslin or linen, but since I was putting it in a pyrex measuring cup, I cheated on this too.

The leftover ashes strained out of the pot

Once I had the ashes strained out of the lye solution, I lifted the fabric out of the measuring cup, being careful not to get any liquid on me.  This is what I had left.

Lye solution

Now it was time to make the soap.  The recipe I found on YouTube that seemed the most straightforward was 2 cups lard, 3/4 cup lye, and 1 tsp salt.  The salt helps the soap set up better.  I got the ingredients ready.

2 cups lard

1 tsp salt into which I poured 3/4 cup lye solution

Next, I had to melt the lard.  I washed out the lye residue from the kettle and put the lard in it then put it on the coals again.  It took just a few minutes for the lard to melt until it was clear.  Then I added the lye/salt solution to the melted lard.

Lard melting on the fire

Lye/salt solution and melted lard

When you add lye to fat, it should immediately turn white-ish.  The chemical reaction happened right away, and I began to stir.

Soap has begun

You have to stir continuously until you get "trace."  Trace is when you pull your spoon through the mixture, and it leaves a line behind it.  The mixture should thicken as well, almost like gravy or melted ice cream.  I stirred...

...and stirred...

...until I got trace.

Blurry, but you can see how the mixture is separating behind the spoon

I had stirred close to an hour, and the mixture felt thick enough, and I had gotten trace, so I decided to pour it into the mold.  Since I was making only a small batch, and I didn't have time to make a wooden soap mold, I used a silicone bread mold I got at the Goodwill.  Yes, cheating again.  I poured the mixture into the mold and now I wait.  It has thickened into a pudding now, and I'm hopeful that it will actually set up enough to cut into bars.

.

Setting up

This really got me to thinking about the skills necessary to live in the past.  The women who made the soap were chemists in their own right, creating chemical reactions without exact measuring, in order to make soap for their families.  I think that my soap may not set up.  I'll actually be surprised if it does, and if it fails, it's no big deal to me.  I can go to the store and get more lard, and making lye, while time-consuming, isn't hard, and I have time.  But back 200 years ago, if the soap didn't work, all of the lye and lard that was used was wasted.  She had to be good. She had to be smart. She had to know what she was doing.  

Hats off to all of the soap-making women of the past!  Your skills put me to shame!

Thoughts After the Slave Dwelling Project

Biddy, Mary, Anne, Dick, Charity, Terry, Poll, Videlia, Nace, Bob, Sictory, Theresa Charity, Violetta, Monica, Henny, Millie, Pat, Nace, Young Moll, Old Moll, Rachel, Jerry, Sue, Hagoe, George, Head, Peter, Anne, Daniel, Peggy, Jane.

The question of whether my ancestors enslaved people was never really something I considered. My Kentucky ancestors were poor, country farmers, hardly situated to enslave anyone. That was done by wealthy plantation owners, people with money, and my ancestors were neither. I guess in the back of my mind, I knew it could be possible that some of my long ago ancestors, who had been in the mid-Atlantic states since the mid-1600s, had enslaved a person or two, but while tracing my genealogy, it wasn't anything I investigated. I had researched my family for years and had never seen anything that indicated that they were enslavers.

But then again, I had never really looked. I hadn't really thought about it. I would pour over censuses and wills and find the names of my great-great-grandparents and their parents and children and brothers and sisters, but unless the names were directly connected by blood to me, I skipped right over them.

So when the question arose whether any of us knew if our ancestors enslavers or not, I didn't raise my hand. I suspected it could have been possible, but I didn't know for sure, so I didn't answer. Now I do.

Biddy, Mary, Anne, Dick, Charity, Terry, Poll, Videlia, Nace, Bob, Sictory, Theresa Charity, Violetta, Monica, Henny, Millie, Pat, Nace, Young Moll, Old Moll, Rachel, Jerry, Sue, Hagoe, George, Head, Peter, Anne, Daniel, Peggy, Jane.

In the days after the cookout, I logged into my Ancestry account and looked at the censuses again. At first, I didn't find any evidence of slavery in my family, and I was relieved. Then I saw one ancestor enslaved one person; another enslaved two. And I knew it was just a matter of time until I found more.

I googled one of my fifth-great grandfather's names, and a link popped up to a website of the early colonial settlers of Maryland and Virginia. I clicked on it, and it led me to his will. The date was 1812. I read it.

He left Biddy to his daughter in Kentucky. They were both already here, but in addition, he willed half of her "issue" to his granddaughter and the other half to his son-in-law. I had to read that twice and then again and again. He gave her children away before they were even born??? Mary went to his other daughter and Anne to his wife. Charity and Dick, however, were to be sold, and some of the money from their sale went to another daughter and the rest to pay debts.  I had seen parts of Henry's will before, but I had never read it beyond where it listed his children, and now I was horrified. I thought of the small community of enslaved people on Henry's farm, and I thought how their lives would be upended, and everything they knew would be wiped away. And what in the world happened to poor Charity and Dick?

With the same website, I was able to read the transcribed wills of a number of my ancestors, and many of them enslaved people. Name after name. Some with ages, some with monetary values, "girl," "boy," "woman," "man."

And there was this:

“Item I give and bequeath one Negro man called Peter and one called Anne to my son JOHN and the first child she bares to my beloved daughter, Mary.” 

"My beloved daughter..." What if Anne's first child was a beloved daughter too?

What trauma, just from everyday living. What utter lack of agency. How did people live like this? How had none of this ever occurred to me before?

Since finding the first names until now, I have been on a mission to find all of the names of the people my ancestors enslaved. I know there are more. I cannot let them be lost to history. I'd like to find their descendants and see what happened to them. To say, "I'm sorry."  Until then, I will make sure they are not forgotten. Say their names with me...

Biddy, Mary, Anne, Dick, Charity, Terry, Poll, Videlia, Nace, Bob, Sictory, Theresa Charity, Violetta, Monica, Henny, Millie, Pat, Nace, Young Moll, Old Moll, Rachel, Jerry, Sue, Hagoe, George, Head, Peter, Anne, Daniel, Peggy, Jane.

note: edited January 2023 to update language to enslaved and enslavers.

Krissy

I thought I was in the hole before I even started. I had gone home with Kirk to Minnesota on a whim to meet his family, which consisted of his mom, dad, and his little sister. They were tight, since it was, and had mostly ever been, just the four of them. I was eager to make a good impression but afraid I'd be considered an outsider. I was in love with this guy, and I wanted his family to let me in.

Kirk called her “Krissy” all the time. In fact, he had rarely called her Kris. I’d never met her or even spoken to her on the phone, so when he called her at college and handed me the receiver after a brief chat, I said the first thing that came to mind,

“Hi Krissy! I can’t wait to meet you!”

His face went sober. His smile disappeared. His eyes grew round.

“What?” I mouthed. “What did I say wrong?” I thought maybe I had spoiled a surprise visit that he had planned. He just shook his head. I mumbled a few more sentences and handed back the phone.

“What?” I asked again.

He looked at me like I had committed the gravest of sins. “She hates when people call her that. Hates it.”

“But you call her Krissy,” I replied.

“Yes,” he said, "but I’m the only one who can. Nobody else. She hates it.” He drew his lips in to a line and shook his head. “I hope we can fix this, “ he said.

That afternoon, we drove to her apartment about an hour away. I was nervous. I kept thinking of how to best apologize and get back into my hopefully future sister-in-law’s good graces. When we got to St. Cloud, Kris met us at the car.

“Kirky!” she yelled, arms open wide for a hug.

“Kizzie!” he replied, picking her up off the ground.

“And you must be Sharron,” she smiled. “It’s so good to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about you!”

“I’m so sorry I called you Krissy,” I stumbled. “Kirk always calls you that, and I didn’t know you didn’t like it…”

“What are you talking about? Everybody calls me Krissy. Did Kirk tell you I didn’t like it? KIRK!” she scolded, “Ya big goof!"  She turned to me, "Come on in. Want something to drink?”

And so began my relationship with the best sister-in-law a girl could ever ask for.

Looking back, now that we are welcoming a new daughter and sister into our family, I see how blessed I was to have Kris in my life. From that very first day, she embraced me with 100% of her being. I never felt like an outsider around her or like I was a bother or an irritation to be tolerated. Whenever we were together, she was always asking my opinion on some trivial matter or if I would like to run errands with her. I was thrilled to offer my thoughts on which color nail polish I liked better or which shirt went best with which pair of pants. She took me to the mall and to drop off presents at her friends’ houses or to pick up something for her then boyfriend, Pete. She would send me cards in the mail with a quick note telling me to have a good day or a little present of something that she saw and knew I would enjoy.

During the lead up to the Gulf War, Kris had plans to visit Kirk for a long weekend in Texas. The airline tickets had been purchased long before Iraq had invaded Kuwait, and even though Kirk was gearing up to take off for the desert, she went down to be there whenever he got home each night. Then he asked me to come down too. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go. I wanted to be there whenever I could. But I didn’t want to horn in on their time together. I hesitated. Then Kris called me.

“Sharron,” she said, “please come too. Kirk needs you there, and I know you want to see him, and I want us all to be happy. I’d love it if you were there too!” And whether she was lying to me or not, I never knew because she was so kind that weekend. Whenever Kirk was at the base, Kris and I would just hang out at the mall or watch a movie. And when he came home, it was like we were a unit. We sat up late and talked and laughed, and I was so very grateful that she had let me in.

During the nine months Kirk was gone, Kris and I kept in touch. She’d call me if she heard from him, and I did the same. When he came home from the war, she was in Costa Rica on a study abroad teaching assignment, and she couldn’t get home. I missed her being there.

Kris was a bridesmaid in our wedding. She “loved” the salmon colored high-low dresses I chose and complimented everything else I picked out. She sent gifts to every bridal shower thrown for me, and for our wedding, she and Pete made us a quilt.

When she and Pete tied the knot, I was a bridesmaid for her. I actually loved the bridesmaid dresses she chose and even wore it to a military ball after. I sent gifts to her showers but never got around to making a quilt in return.

Kris visited us in Hawaii after Kyle was born, celebrating with us the week after Christmas. She doted on him like any aunt does to the first nephew or niece. We went to a luau and to the beach and shopping and out to eat. I have a picture of Kyle and Kris on a merry-go-round in Honolulu at a street fair. She’s holding him on a horse, and he’s smiling from ear to ear.

Whenever we’d go visit Minnesota, Kris would come by her parents’ house almost every day. She’d bring her Stamping Up kit and teach me how to make cards and ornaments and decoupage plates. When she got into scrapbooking even more, we’d develop pictures, and she tried to get me over my loathing of cutting up photographs to crop out the unnecessary stuff. She showed me how to tell the story of the event using stickers and fancy scissors and colored paper. I was miserable with so many choices, but she was a whiz and made 5 pages for my 1. Still, at the end of whatever we had done, she praised my talent and told me how amazing I was.

Kris never said a mean thing to me. She never acted mad or resentful that I was around. She only ever treated me with the kindest of hearts and always, always made me feel like she was thrilled that I was there.

Kris got breast cancer when she was about 36. Even when she was battling her illness, she still made me feel like I was a gift. As her time drew short, she called me and asked me to come visit her. She had been in the hospital for a few days, and she didn’t think she would be going home. She said, “I want to see you.”

I didn’t think I could do it. I remember sitting down in the middle of my kitchen floor coming up with all of the reasons I couldn’t go…too expensive to fly…the kids had too many activities…I had a commitment I couldn’t get out of…

“Please, Sharron,” she said. “I need to see you.”

After I agreed to fly up, I laid in a fetal position in the floor and sobbed. How could I go and say goodbye to this woman who had embraced me as her sister? Who had so selfishly shared her beloved brother with me? Who had given so much of herself to me over the years? How could I possibly say goodbye?

When I got to Minnesota, Pete picked me up at the airport. He told me she had been sleeping most of the time and that she might not be awake when I got there. I walked into her room, leaned over, and said, “Hi Krissy, It’s Sharron. I’m here.  It's my birthday, and seeing you is the best present I could have.”

She opened her eyes and smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you!” she said. I think she wished me a happy birthday, but I don’t remember. I was there for 2 more days, and she never opened her eyes again while I was around. She died less than a week later. The hole she left in my life has never filled.

Krissy broke the mold on how all sisters-in-law should be. I hope that my girls will embrace the love of their brother’s life with the same spirit that I felt from Kris. We are gaining a beautiful soul with Macey, and I want her to feel all the love I felt and more.