A friend, just back from Thanksgiving, said she had gone through old photographs with her mother while home for the holiday. I told her that was good, that I wished I had done more of that, while my mother was alive. I had started trying to learn something of my family’s history in a limited way before my parents died, but didn't ask as many questions as I should have. Going through my mom's house, I found photographs of people that I will never know who they are. I did get some information though from both my parents, and am glad that I did, but I wish I had done a better job of it.
Several years ago, based on what my mom could tell me, I had checked out some of the databases that the Mormon Church has assembled and made available on line. I eventually subscribed to Ancestry.com and assembled a massive family tree based on linking to trees other people had done that were of unclear accuracy. I only worked on it intermittently, and although there was something very gratifying about figuring out which of several people with the same name in the census records actually was the person I was looking for, I wasn't very systematic and didn't find out anything that was particularly interesting. Without stories or context or knowing about the people, extending a family tree back into the 18th century seemed a pretty empty exercise.
Then a couple of months ago, I started being a little more systematic, and trying to confirm some of the people and relationships that I wasn't sure about. And in the process, I got hooked, trying to reconstruct these 19th century lives from census records and engraving on tombstones and Civil War pension records. I hadn't known, before, how deep were my Southern roots (I grew up in Oklahoma and Kansas, and never considered myself a Southerner, even though I now live in Atlanta), but my ancestors over the generations made their way from Pennsylvania and Maryland to North Carolina and South Carolina and Georgia and then west to Alabama and Mississippi and Arkansas and then to Texas and eventually to Oklahoma. As best I can tell, my relatives who were here by the late 18th century were on the right side of the Revolutionary War (a great-great-great-great-grandfather, a veteran of the Revolutionary War, had trouble getting his pension because he was illiterate and couldn't read the discharge papers he needed to establish his service record) but they were uniformly on the wrong side of the Civil War. Two great-great-grandfathers fought in different units of the Confederate Army, and both had brothers (or brothers-in-law) who died. I've never been particularly interested in Civil War history, but it does make me wonder what cause these hardworking subsistence farmers were fighting for. (A cousin several times removed has relayed a family story that our great-great-grandfather said later in his life that the whole thing had been a bad idea. It may have had something to do with having been there when his nephew was shot in the head during the siege of Port Hudson.)
So I am looking for records from Marion and Fayette Counties in Alabama, and Itawamba County in Mississippi. There are other counties, too, that I haven't looked for yet. These are places whose histories are documented by local historians, working as volunteers for county historical societies, mostly. A massive amount of information is on line now, through commercial sites like Ancestry, but also through noncommercial volunteer-built sites that are part of the USGenWeb project. There are lots of local histories that are written by local historians and published in limited runs by small presses. Once they go out of print, they are really hard to find (and expensive if you do find them), but presumably there are copies in the local library or at the county historical society.
Until I got interested in places like Itawamba County, Mississippi, or Fayette County, Alabama, I never thought much about who documents the histories of small places. With so much mobility, is it doomed to disappear, without a critical mass of local people to keep it going? (My family moved to Woodward, Oklahoma, in 1969. Although I've enjoyed visiting the local historical museum over the years, the history there wasn't the history of my family, who came to Coal County and Greer County from Texas, back when Oklahoma was still Indian Territory.) Of course, now there is the internet, which I know has been huge for genealogy. Has it done the same for local history? For while most of us no longer live in the same communities that our parents lived in, much less our grandparents or great-grandparents, all you have to do is type a name in Google, and you can find more than you imagined about the people who came before you, or the places where you live. And people like me are looking for histories of Fayette County, Alabama, and seriously considering becoming dues-paying members of the Itawamba Historical Society. The baby boom generation is approaching retirement age. Maybe technology will make up for some of what has been lost with the mobility of my generation. For what it’s worth, I did mail that check yesterday.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Thanksgiving Day, 2010
The morning after. The turkey leftovers are in the refrigerator, and there is a little bit of blackberry pie and pumpkin pie left. There aren't many dishes left to do - I did, I think, 5 loads over the course of the day yesterday - but there are wine glasses and empty bottles on the table, left from the after dinner conversation.
The day was less eventful than last year, with the dishwasher performing as expected and not almost burning the house down. Last year I tried to get a heritage turkey but the farm in Elberton (the only place I could find close to nearby that raised them) was sold out by the time I got around do looking. So I ended up on the waiting list, and sometime early this year I got an email asking if I wanted to order one this year. So I paid my $25 deposit to hold my place in line.
We got an email a month or two ago, giving us the pick up dates - November 15 and 22 - so Tom and I went there on November 15. There were half a dozen cars there on a beautiful morning at Liz and Tim Young's farm. Tim was teaching a class on about how to dress your own turkey and a young woman was cooking beignets. (They were really good.) Liz had the scale and the preorder list and got a 16 lb turkey out of the freezer for us. It was bird shaped, not round like the ones at the grocery store. She told us that they had raised about 150 birds this year. As turkey lives go, this turkey had a good life, wandering a 126 acre farm; Liz said that for the last two months, their first task each morning was to find the turkeys. How to cook it? Pretty much the same way you cook any other turkey, but no basting needed as there is a thick layer of fat under the skin. Tom had brought a measuring tape to make sure it would fit inside the smoker (it would), so into the cooler it went.
So, after brining overnight, the turkey went on the smoker yesterday morning. The girls made pies and I made cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, two loaves of bread machine bread, and butternut squash with sour cream and dill; Caroline made green bean casserole. I'd gotten a folding table with the idea we'd have the kids at separate table but Iain wanted to be with the adults and I told him that was fine, as long was we could get 10 chairs around the table. So he and Tom put in all our extra leaves and we could seat 10. The tablecloth was just long enough.
It turned out that we only had 8 people (Max and Emma didn't come after all) so I was glad we were set to have everyone in the dining room. And we didn't eat the bread from the bread machine, because Fred bought a wonderful loaf of homemade sourdough bread. Angela came, and Mark, and Angela brought two of her dogs, who kept Bullwinkle company in the backyard for the afternoon. After dinner, Fred and Angela stayed til they had to go home and attend to the dogs that were still at home, and Tom and Mark and Iain played guitars. The girls wandered in and out and had seconds and thirds on pie. (Bullwinkle did get a slice of pumpkin pie that Sarah left, just for a moment, unattended at the edge of the kitchen counter.) Kathy came over to visit with Angela and the leftovers got put away.
The turkey was good - it was more like meat than the grocery store turkeys are. Of course, it lived a life more like a bird than the factory farm turkeys do, so I guess that's not unexpected. We'll enjoy the leftovers and make some more pumpkin pies. The dishwasher didn't autodestruct. It was a good day.
The day was less eventful than last year, with the dishwasher performing as expected and not almost burning the house down. Last year I tried to get a heritage turkey but the farm in Elberton (the only place I could find close to nearby that raised them) was sold out by the time I got around do looking. So I ended up on the waiting list, and sometime early this year I got an email asking if I wanted to order one this year. So I paid my $25 deposit to hold my place in line.
We got an email a month or two ago, giving us the pick up dates - November 15 and 22 - so Tom and I went there on November 15. There were half a dozen cars there on a beautiful morning at Liz and Tim Young's farm. Tim was teaching a class on about how to dress your own turkey and a young woman was cooking beignets. (They were really good.) Liz had the scale and the preorder list and got a 16 lb turkey out of the freezer for us. It was bird shaped, not round like the ones at the grocery store. She told us that they had raised about 150 birds this year. As turkey lives go, this turkey had a good life, wandering a 126 acre farm; Liz said that for the last two months, their first task each morning was to find the turkeys. How to cook it? Pretty much the same way you cook any other turkey, but no basting needed as there is a thick layer of fat under the skin. Tom had brought a measuring tape to make sure it would fit inside the smoker (it would), so into the cooler it went.
So, after brining overnight, the turkey went on the smoker yesterday morning. The girls made pies and I made cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, two loaves of bread machine bread, and butternut squash with sour cream and dill; Caroline made green bean casserole. I'd gotten a folding table with the idea we'd have the kids at separate table but Iain wanted to be with the adults and I told him that was fine, as long was we could get 10 chairs around the table. So he and Tom put in all our extra leaves and we could seat 10. The tablecloth was just long enough.
It turned out that we only had 8 people (Max and Emma didn't come after all) so I was glad we were set to have everyone in the dining room. And we didn't eat the bread from the bread machine, because Fred bought a wonderful loaf of homemade sourdough bread. Angela came, and Mark, and Angela brought two of her dogs, who kept Bullwinkle company in the backyard for the afternoon. After dinner, Fred and Angela stayed til they had to go home and attend to the dogs that were still at home, and Tom and Mark and Iain played guitars. The girls wandered in and out and had seconds and thirds on pie. (Bullwinkle did get a slice of pumpkin pie that Sarah left, just for a moment, unattended at the edge of the kitchen counter.) Kathy came over to visit with Angela and the leftovers got put away.
The turkey was good - it was more like meat than the grocery store turkeys are. Of course, it lived a life more like a bird than the factory farm turkeys do, so I guess that's not unexpected. We'll enjoy the leftovers and make some more pumpkin pies. The dishwasher didn't autodestruct. It was a good day.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Two Years and Counting
I just read a notice on one of the neighborhood listservs that someone who was moving due to foreclosure was looking for a home for his dog. It was a brief message, with some links to pictures of the dog. According to economic statistics, the recession ended last summer; since then, the economy has stopped shrinking and has started to grow, but the growing is not enough to stop the world of hurt that's still going on. It would be bad enough to tell my children we were moving, but if we had to give away the dog...it would break my heart.
There is a house around the corner on Cumberland. Several years ago (before the economy crashed) the brick ranch house that use to be there was almost but not quite completely demolished and replaced by a big box of a house, with just a sliver of the old orange brick left (is there something about the building permitting process that made them do it this way?) . The new house never quite got finished, though. It never got garage doors or a proper front door and the outside of the house never got done, either. But there were people living there - we talked to them at a couple of yard sales, and Caroline bought a wooden porch swing like my grandparents used to have on their front porch that she set on milk crates and used as a bench in her room for a while.
And then, they were gone. Last winter, peculiarly, the upstairs windows were open for a long time. At some point a Pile of Stuff appeared in the front yard, the kind of Stuff that you don't sell but maybe you want it or maybe you throw it out but you never envisioned it would be all that was left when you lose your house and then you're gone. A padlock got put on the not-really-a-front-door and the tarps that covered the spaces where the garage doors should be were replaced with plywood. The house sits there, empty, and every time I walk by in wonder who they were and why they left the orange brick there when they knocked the rest of the house down and what conjunction of bad luck and recession led to the loss of the house and where they are now.
On our street, Angela is moving because her landlord is having to sell the house she has been renting. There's a For Sale sign too at the apartments at Wessyngton and Highland that suggests they can be replaced with three luxury homes, which seems to me to be highly wishful thinking. Businesses keep disappearing in the small commercial area nearby on North Highland. Some of them moved elsewhere (Caramba Cafe lost their lease), but most of them are just gone.
It's been two years since the bubble burst, the credit markets froze up, and we were on the precipice of Something Really Bad happening. The government stepped in to Save the Financial System, and I hear they are making money on Wall Street again. But in my neighborhood - my very nice neighborhood - there is a guy who is trying to find a home for his dog because he lost his house.
It just makes me want to cry.
There is a house around the corner on Cumberland. Several years ago (before the economy crashed) the brick ranch house that use to be there was almost but not quite completely demolished and replaced by a big box of a house, with just a sliver of the old orange brick left (is there something about the building permitting process that made them do it this way?) . The new house never quite got finished, though. It never got garage doors or a proper front door and the outside of the house never got done, either. But there were people living there - we talked to them at a couple of yard sales, and Caroline bought a wooden porch swing like my grandparents used to have on their front porch that she set on milk crates and used as a bench in her room for a while.
And then, they were gone. Last winter, peculiarly, the upstairs windows were open for a long time. At some point a Pile of Stuff appeared in the front yard, the kind of Stuff that you don't sell but maybe you want it or maybe you throw it out but you never envisioned it would be all that was left when you lose your house and then you're gone. A padlock got put on the not-really-a-front-door and the tarps that covered the spaces where the garage doors should be were replaced with plywood. The house sits there, empty, and every time I walk by in wonder who they were and why they left the orange brick there when they knocked the rest of the house down and what conjunction of bad luck and recession led to the loss of the house and where they are now.
On our street, Angela is moving because her landlord is having to sell the house she has been renting. There's a For Sale sign too at the apartments at Wessyngton and Highland that suggests they can be replaced with three luxury homes, which seems to me to be highly wishful thinking. Businesses keep disappearing in the small commercial area nearby on North Highland. Some of them moved elsewhere (Caramba Cafe lost their lease), but most of them are just gone.
It's been two years since the bubble burst, the credit markets froze up, and we were on the precipice of Something Really Bad happening. The government stepped in to Save the Financial System, and I hear they are making money on Wall Street again. But in my neighborhood - my very nice neighborhood - there is a guy who is trying to find a home for his dog because he lost his house.
It just makes me want to cry.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
What the House Inspector Failed to Tell Me
I don't remember who first explained to me - it might have been a visiting friend from medical school, years ago - the significance of the little plastic box, about six inches long and three-quarters of an inch wide, nailed to the doorframe of the back door. I bought this house more than 20 years ago, and the little box was there when I bought the house, and I didn't notice it for a while.
It is, of course, a mezuza, a tiny parchment scroll with verses in Hebrew from the Torah, in a protective container that holds it in place and protects it from the elements. I am thinking about this today because of a story in yesterday's New York Times, that because of turnover in occupants, mezuzas left by previous residents now are in doorways of many housing units occupied by people who are not Jewish. According to the New York Times article, "Jews leaving a home are expected to leave the mezuzas behind if they believe the next residents will also be Jewish. If not, they must take the mezuza with them, to guard against the possibility that a non-Jew might desecrate it, knowingly or not."
It would never have occurred to me to take it down, and I am glad that the previous owners of the house (who I am guessing are the people who put it there) didn't have their real estate agent ask me my religion; certainly it didn't come up when the house was inspected ("mezuza on rear doorframe"). I like having it there. It is part of the history of the house, and connects me and my family to the history of faith that is part of the history of our world.
It is, of course, a mezuza, a tiny parchment scroll with verses in Hebrew from the Torah, in a protective container that holds it in place and protects it from the elements. I am thinking about this today because of a story in yesterday's New York Times, that because of turnover in occupants, mezuzas left by previous residents now are in doorways of many housing units occupied by people who are not Jewish. According to the New York Times article, "Jews leaving a home are expected to leave the mezuzas behind if they believe the next residents will also be Jewish. If not, they must take the mezuza with them, to guard against the possibility that a non-Jew might desecrate it, knowingly or not."
It would never have occurred to me to take it down, and I am glad that the previous owners of the house (who I am guessing are the people who put it there) didn't have their real estate agent ask me my religion; certainly it didn't come up when the house was inspected ("mezuza on rear doorframe"). I like having it there. It is part of the history of the house, and connects me and my family to the history of faith that is part of the history of our world.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Why You Should Get to Know Your Neighbors
Our neighbor Mona moved to Vietnam last summer. We threw her a going away party, a potluck supper on Kathy's screened-in porch. Tom made ribs. So there's one reason right there to get to know your neighbors - if you move halfway around the world, we might throw you a party before you go.
Mona had turned her house over to a management company to rent out in her absence, and after a little while it did get rented. Three young women and a dog named Bosley moved in next door - although I met the human occupants a couple of times I never got the names-emails-phone numbers that nowdays constitute "knowing someone." Bosley's name I knew because Bosley's owner would call his name sometimes.
A few days ago Tom was talking to one of the young women who lived next door. Her name was Sara, and he got her last name and email address and phone number written down. I emailed her and asked if it was okay if I passed the information along to Lynsley, who actually keeps the Excel spreadsheet that is our Wessyngton Road directory. I hadn't heard back, yet, but added her to the distribution list I use to send out emails about car break ins and block parties.
This morning I woke up at 5 a.m. I got up to finish some work I hadn't gotten done yesterday. It was raining hard outside. I fed the dog, put on a pot of coffee, checked email quickly, and then let the dog out. When I opened the back door, someone was calling Bosley. It was later in the morning that I got Sara's email, that Bosley had gone outside at 2 a.m., without his collar which had been irritating his skin, and then the storm had started. She thought he got scared by the storm and had taken cover somewhere, but there was no sign of him, and she was frantic. Could I let the neighbors know? She sent a picture, too, that I could forward to help identify the missing dog:
Mona had turned her house over to a management company to rent out in her absence, and after a little while it did get rented. Three young women and a dog named Bosley moved in next door - although I met the human occupants a couple of times I never got the names-emails-phone numbers that nowdays constitute "knowing someone." Bosley's name I knew because Bosley's owner would call his name sometimes.
A few days ago Tom was talking to one of the young women who lived next door. Her name was Sara, and he got her last name and email address and phone number written down. I emailed her and asked if it was okay if I passed the information along to Lynsley, who actually keeps the Excel spreadsheet that is our Wessyngton Road directory. I hadn't heard back, yet, but added her to the distribution list I use to send out emails about car break ins and block parties.
This morning I woke up at 5 a.m. I got up to finish some work I hadn't gotten done yesterday. It was raining hard outside. I fed the dog, put on a pot of coffee, checked email quickly, and then let the dog out. When I opened the back door, someone was calling Bosley. It was later in the morning that I got Sara's email, that Bosley had gone outside at 2 a.m., without his collar which had been irritating his skin, and then the storm had started. She thought he got scared by the storm and had taken cover somewhere, but there was no sign of him, and she was frantic. Could I let the neighbors know? She sent a picture, too, that I could forward to help identify the missing dog:
So I forwarded the message, and 33 minutes later Lynsley responded that one of her neighbors had told her he had found a pug sniffing around the trash last night. Although he didn't have a collar on, he obviously was someone's pet, and he was safe with Lynsley's neighbor. Sara had him back soon thereafter.
We now have the names and email addresses and phone numbers for Sara's roommates. We are glad to have them as neighbors.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
News from the Back Yard
I have had backyard bird feeders off and on for years, but a year or so ago I got a little more serious about it. I got a couple of new feeders and hung them from the privet tree in the back yard. (Iain and I spent several hours cutting privet in the Morningside Nature Preserve yesterday morning with Trees Atlanta. I am no longer sure I want privet in my back yard.) But it was making me crazy, seeing the squirrels emptying the feeders. I put a feeder on the ground, by the back fence, with food that the squirrels and the chipmunks could get to easily, but I did not want them on my bird feeders.
So last fall I got a so-called "squirrel-proof" bird feeder from Droll Yankees. They have 4 different ones. The one they had a video for at the stores is equipped with a motor that is activated by the weight of a squirrel. If a squirrel gets on it, it will whirl around at high enough speed to hurl the squirrel off. It's funny to watch on the demonstration video, but I wasn't sure how durable it would be, in the long run, so I got the Yankee Dipper, which deters squirrels by its physical size (it is too wide and long for them to climb down it) and by hinged perches, that collapse even under the weight of a larger bird, much less a squirrel.
It worked really well for 6 months or so. The squirrels tried, but just couldn't get to the small openings at the bottom where the sunflower seeds are. Then, about a month ago, I found the feeder lying on ground, with seeds spilling out (and feasting squirrels). I assumed the wind had knocked it off and put it back up. Then the next day it was on the ground again. The squirrels had figured out, somehow, how to knock it off. I thought maybe they all jumped on it together. So I attached it more securely with a carabiner and it has not come off the tree (except when I removed it for refilling) since. I did see a squirrel on top of it, trying to push it off by pushing against a higher branch. For having brains the size of peanuts, they really are pretty devious.
So now they have learned a new technique. They sort of slide down the tube, and when they get to the bottom, hold on to it by wrapping themselves around the bottom and putting their feet in the openings where the seeds come out. I have seen them do this several times and will be on the lookout to catch it on video. When I do, it will be here.
The other news is better. The blueberry plants that I got from the plant sale sponsored by the Virginia Highlands group that was raising money for the new park actually have blueberries on them. The apple tree is doing well, I think, and a few of the bareroot strawberry plants that spent too long in a plastic bag before they got planted also appeared to have survived.
Years ago, both Caroline and Sarah built bird houses at a Girl Scout meeting. At home, they painted them gray, and they sat around for years until last fall (around the same time that I put up the bird feeders) I decided to put them up. There weren't great places to put them in the back yard - since the two dogwood trees died, we don't really have any real trees in our back yard - but I used wire to attach one to a small tree of unknown variety (probably something nasty that we shouldn't be encouraging) in the back yard, and the other to a Japanese maple that Tom had planted just beyond the back fence. During the fall and winter, I did occasionally see a bird exploring the one in the back yard, but of course it wasn't nesting season, and as I understand it, bird houses are really nesting boxes, that birds only use - and need - for eggs in the spring and baby birds in the summer. So I didn't expect to see any birds actually using it.
Well, this morning a pair of chickadees were moving in and out, with one or the other frequently visible in the round opening on the front. I haven't seen them this afternoon, but I hope they are napping or out hunting for furnishings. It would be great to have a chickadee family in the back yard.
So last fall I got a so-called "squirrel-proof" bird feeder from Droll Yankees. They have 4 different ones. The one they had a video for at the stores is equipped with a motor that is activated by the weight of a squirrel. If a squirrel gets on it, it will whirl around at high enough speed to hurl the squirrel off. It's funny to watch on the demonstration video, but I wasn't sure how durable it would be, in the long run, so I got the Yankee Dipper, which deters squirrels by its physical size (it is too wide and long for them to climb down it) and by hinged perches, that collapse even under the weight of a larger bird, much less a squirrel.
It worked really well for 6 months or so. The squirrels tried, but just couldn't get to the small openings at the bottom where the sunflower seeds are. Then, about a month ago, I found the feeder lying on ground, with seeds spilling out (and feasting squirrels). I assumed the wind had knocked it off and put it back up. Then the next day it was on the ground again. The squirrels had figured out, somehow, how to knock it off. I thought maybe they all jumped on it together. So I attached it more securely with a carabiner and it has not come off the tree (except when I removed it for refilling) since. I did see a squirrel on top of it, trying to push it off by pushing against a higher branch. For having brains the size of peanuts, they really are pretty devious.
So now they have learned a new technique. They sort of slide down the tube, and when they get to the bottom, hold on to it by wrapping themselves around the bottom and putting their feet in the openings where the seeds come out. I have seen them do this several times and will be on the lookout to catch it on video. When I do, it will be here.
The other news is better. The blueberry plants that I got from the plant sale sponsored by the Virginia Highlands group that was raising money for the new park actually have blueberries on them. The apple tree is doing well, I think, and a few of the bareroot strawberry plants that spent too long in a plastic bag before they got planted also appeared to have survived.
Years ago, both Caroline and Sarah built bird houses at a Girl Scout meeting. At home, they painted them gray, and they sat around for years until last fall (around the same time that I put up the bird feeders) I decided to put them up. There weren't great places to put them in the back yard - since the two dogwood trees died, we don't really have any real trees in our back yard - but I used wire to attach one to a small tree of unknown variety (probably something nasty that we shouldn't be encouraging) in the back yard, and the other to a Japanese maple that Tom had planted just beyond the back fence. During the fall and winter, I did occasionally see a bird exploring the one in the back yard, but of course it wasn't nesting season, and as I understand it, bird houses are really nesting boxes, that birds only use - and need - for eggs in the spring and baby birds in the summer. So I didn't expect to see any birds actually using it.
Well, this morning a pair of chickadees were moving in and out, with one or the other frequently visible in the round opening on the front. I haven't seen them this afternoon, but I hope they are napping or out hunting for furnishings. It would be great to have a chickadee family in the back yard.
Crime on Wessyngton Road
It was week before last that someone broke into my car. I had gone outside to put something I didn't want to forget in the car before heading to work, and on the front passenger's seat was a pile of shattered glass. I have had stuff taken from my car before, when I left it unlocked, but never had it broken into before. A few weeks before someone had taken the little bit of money I had left in the armrest compartment between the two front seats - it wasn't much - maybe $12 - but whoever had taken it had left the compartment open and the other contents scattered.
So this time, there was no cash in the car, and nothing else that anyone would want to take - but the compartment was open again. Nothing else seemed to have been touched, except of course for the window, which had been reduced to a glittering pile of tiny geometric shapes, at the curb, inside the door of my car, and on the sweater I had left on the passenger's seat.
I had to go to work, so I took the Cavalier. Tom said he supposed insurance wouldn't cover it; I said I had no idea, and asked him to call. It turns out that not only was it covered, but that State Farm it down to a fine art, the business of fixing cars that have been broken into. Two guys with a van and a vacuum cleaner came and replaced the window, and got rid of almost all the broken glass that was inside the car.
I called 911 to report it, just to get it on the record that it had happened, and a police officer came by to take my report. By the time I called, the window was fixed, but the pile of broken glass next to the curb in front of Sally's house and the bent place on the window frame was left as evidence. She looked at the car and said, they popped it, they put a tool in right there and pried the glass, which shatters it without making any noise. She pointed to the plastic disk on the dashboard and asked if I had a GPS. Yes, I told her, but it wasn't in the car. As far as I know, they didn't take anything at all. I told her about the $12 that had disappeared a couple weeks before, that I hadn't bothered to report. She thought most likely they were looking for the GPS. Maybe I can take that off the dashboard and stick it to the windshield, I said. She said it wouldn't help, that the suction cup would leave a circle on the window that would be visible, and that is what they looked for. Crackheads, she said, this is a crackhead kind of crime. Only crackheads would break into a car looking for a GPS that they can hock for $10. Had we seen anyone suspicious on our street? No, I told her, but I would let the neighbors know to call 911 if they saw anything.
I am not completely sure what a "suspicious" person would look like - on our street, I guess it would be someone walking who didn't have a dog. I suspect crackheads who break into cars for $10 GPS units (or $12 cash) do not have dogs. So I sent out an email to my neighbors, and I don't keep cash in my car anymore. Tom took the car to the body shop last week, and the bent frame around the window got fixed, so you can't tell by looking at the car that anything ever happened.
One good thing did come out of this. About a year and a half ago, I hit the brakes and my Ray-Ban sunglasses flew off the passenger's seat next to me and I never saw them again. I really thought they were in the car, but maybe they ended up in the Alon's bag that was sitting on the floor on the passenger's side, and got thrown out inadvertently. I looked several times and never found them.
But the guys who replaced my car window did find them. When they left, there they were, sitting on the passenger's seat.
So this time, there was no cash in the car, and nothing else that anyone would want to take - but the compartment was open again. Nothing else seemed to have been touched, except of course for the window, which had been reduced to a glittering pile of tiny geometric shapes, at the curb, inside the door of my car, and on the sweater I had left on the passenger's seat.
I had to go to work, so I took the Cavalier. Tom said he supposed insurance wouldn't cover it; I said I had no idea, and asked him to call. It turns out that not only was it covered, but that State Farm it down to a fine art, the business of fixing cars that have been broken into. Two guys with a van and a vacuum cleaner came and replaced the window, and got rid of almost all the broken glass that was inside the car.
I called 911 to report it, just to get it on the record that it had happened, and a police officer came by to take my report. By the time I called, the window was fixed, but the pile of broken glass next to the curb in front of Sally's house and the bent place on the window frame was left as evidence. She looked at the car and said, they popped it, they put a tool in right there and pried the glass, which shatters it without making any noise. She pointed to the plastic disk on the dashboard and asked if I had a GPS. Yes, I told her, but it wasn't in the car. As far as I know, they didn't take anything at all. I told her about the $12 that had disappeared a couple weeks before, that I hadn't bothered to report. She thought most likely they were looking for the GPS. Maybe I can take that off the dashboard and stick it to the windshield, I said. She said it wouldn't help, that the suction cup would leave a circle on the window that would be visible, and that is what they looked for. Crackheads, she said, this is a crackhead kind of crime. Only crackheads would break into a car looking for a GPS that they can hock for $10. Had we seen anyone suspicious on our street? No, I told her, but I would let the neighbors know to call 911 if they saw anything.
I am not completely sure what a "suspicious" person would look like - on our street, I guess it would be someone walking who didn't have a dog. I suspect crackheads who break into cars for $10 GPS units (or $12 cash) do not have dogs. So I sent out an email to my neighbors, and I don't keep cash in my car anymore. Tom took the car to the body shop last week, and the bent frame around the window got fixed, so you can't tell by looking at the car that anything ever happened.
One good thing did come out of this. About a year and a half ago, I hit the brakes and my Ray-Ban sunglasses flew off the passenger's seat next to me and I never saw them again. I really thought they were in the car, but maybe they ended up in the Alon's bag that was sitting on the floor on the passenger's side, and got thrown out inadvertently. I looked several times and never found them.
But the guys who replaced my car window did find them. When they left, there they were, sitting on the passenger's seat.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Jury Duty
There are some basic duties that come with citizenship, and this seems to be a month with many of those duties on my calendar. There is the decennial census, with a census date of April 1 (even though I got the form and filled it out and mailed it back in March). There's the income tax deadline. And then, there's jury duty.
I actually was initially summoned for a date in January, but I had an already scheduled trip for work for the date in the summons. So I called and asked if I could make it another date, and they gave me an alternative date of April 6. I told them that would work, and put it on my calendar and colored it red so that no one would plan anything else for me for that date.
The summons came in March, with the April 6 date. I filled out the questionnaire, as requested, and mailed back. According to the summons, I was a in a standby group, so with any luck, I wouldn't even have to go in, but I wouldn't know until after 5 p.m. on April 5, when they posted the instructions for jurors for the following day.
I called right at 5 p.m., and the recording had not yet been updated; a few minutes later, it was, and I got the news that I needed to report for duty the following morning.
The last time I had been in the big room on the 7th floor in the Fulton County Courthouse was when Sarah's mock trial team was there for the regional mock trial competition. Each school had an assigned area in that big room; some of them had pizza boxes and cartons of soft drinks or bottled water; our school had a full buffet with bread, cold cuts, condiments, salads, fruit, cookies, and chocolates.
This time, there was no food, only people who had come because they had to. They scattered themselves throughout the room. A few ignored the "No Cell Phone Use" signs but most were quiet, and if they talked at all, talked in a low voice like they were in a library, to the person sitting next to them. There were a few long tables across the front of the room, with chairs and electrical outlets; I had brought my laptop and spent an hour on email. Some people had brought books to read; the woman sitting closest to me - the one who watched my stuff when I went to the bathroom, and I did the same for her - was grading papers. But maybe half the people there had not brought anything with them at all, and they were just sitting. I still don't understand that. Maybe they had never been called for jury duty before, and thought they were going straight to the jury box and it was going to be just like Law and Order on television.
At 9:30, they started calling names. They told us to try to remember our number, but when they did call mine I was so focused on getting my laptop turned off and packed away that I forgot to listen, once they had called my name.
Only once before have I ever gotten sent to a courtroom for jury selection; usually I have just sat in that big room until they told me I could leave. That time, I was number 1, but they only needed 6 people to hear the trial (a lawsuit, I think, but I don't even remember) and I wasn't one of them. They spent maybe an hour on jury selection, and then I was on my way.
This time there were sixty of us, lined up in the corridor, waiting to file into the courtroom. I was number 35. Number 36 was very anxious; she was a dancer, and was scheduled to perform that night. Number 34 was trying to get some work done on his Blackberry before they brought us into the electronics-free zone in the courtroom. A few people who didn't have on the white "JUROR" stickers sat on the benches in the corridor in little clusters. A woman was crying in the women's bathroom, talking on her cellphone in Spanish. In the hallway, there were a couple of women with small children; they all looked really unhappy. If it's a child abuse case, the woman who had been grading papers told me, I just can't do it.
We finally got into courtroom, packed into the pews with laminated cards with our number as placecards. The judge thanked us for being there, and acknowledged that we probably didn't want to be, and that we probably thought that our standby status meant we wouldn't have to report at all. It was a long drive for those outside the perimeter to get to downtown Atlanta so early in the morning, and we had other things to do. But from our group, twelve people would be chosen to serve on a jury.
She read the indictment. Even with only the listing of charges, in the legal language of the grand jury, this was clearly a horrific crime. The judge asked questions of the group, and we responded by holding up our laminated cards. Did we know anything about the case? Did we know the victim, the defendant, any of the attorneys? Had we or our family members been the victim of crime, or been accused of a crime we didn't commit? Were we friends with judges or attorneys or police officers? Did we have training in science or medical training? Did we believe that a prostitute could not be a victim of sexual assault, or that an accused person had to prove their innocence? Did we think we couldn't be fair, or couldn't serve becauses it would be hardship? The lawyers watched us raise our hands, made notes, scrutinized us. When we broke for lunch, the judge told us to call the people we needed to call to say we might be busy for a few days. If we had said it would be a hardship, she expected us to do what we could to resolve the problem ourselves. And we were not to talk about the case among ourselves or with anyone else.
After lunch, they started individual interviews. The interviews were done in the privacy of the jury room, with the prosecutors on one side of the table and the defendant and his defense attorneys on the other side; the judge was at the end. Some were quick and some were not. Between 1:10 p.m., when they started, and 5:30 p.m., when they stopped for the day, they talked to the first 33 jurors. Juror 34 and I sighed; we would have to be back, with 36 through 60, at 10:30 in the morning to resume voir dire; 1 through 33 didn't have to come back until afternoon.
Before we left at the end of that first day, we were told not to look anything up about the case, not to talk to anyone, not to blog or Twitter or post on Facebook. We were back the next morning, 34 and 36 (she had made it to her performance, and was in a much better mood the second day) and on up to 60. The interviews went faster the second day; they only had a few questions for me (did I have any training in pathology? How long ago was that?).
So the attorneys had their notes and their lists, and when the time came to actually select the jury, the baliff carried the jury listing back and forth between the two tables. They wrote, they highlighted, they consulted others on their team, and twice they went up to talk to the judge. Then, suddenly, it was over. They called out names, and one by one 13 of us - 12 jurors and an alternate - made their way to the jury box. They didn't call me (too much pathology training or too little?) but they did call number 34. Then the judge thanked the rest of us for our patience and our service, and told us we could leave.
Outside, we scattered. I crossed the street to the parking deck with number 23, who had raised his hand the day before on all those questions about knowing lawyers and judges. Are you an attorney, I asked. He asked what had given him away - the pin stripe suit? the wingtip shoes? Actually, I told him, it was the answers to the questions the day before. I'm not that kind of lawyer, he told me. It was going to be an upsetting case, he said. I told him I had thought it was upsetting, just to hear the indictment read.
While we were waiting for the final jury selection, the prosecution brought in a cardboard box, with the victim's name written on the side. I hadn't remembered the names of either the defendant or the victim from the indictment. So when I got home, I did what I had been told not to do the night before - I did a Google search, and found out more about the victim, the defendant, and the crime. It was a terrible crime, and I was glad that after all these years it had not been forgotten. It was a relief, that evening, to be able to talk about it, if only to say that those events back in 1994 were horrific, and if the man on trial was the man who had committed the crime, that I hoped that the prosecution could make a very strong case.
There wasn't much about the trial in the newspaper, but every evening I looked for updates. The trial had started as soon as we were dismissed, at the end of the day on Wednesday. The prosecution finished presenting their case on Friday, and the defense was expected to call no witnesses; it was expected to go to the jury Friday afternoon. So the jury was going to have go home, and keep whatever horrors they had heard to themselves over the weekend, and then return Monday morning to resume deliberations.
Yesterday - Monday - there was a verdict.
Guilty, on all counts.
I actually was initially summoned for a date in January, but I had an already scheduled trip for work for the date in the summons. So I called and asked if I could make it another date, and they gave me an alternative date of April 6. I told them that would work, and put it on my calendar and colored it red so that no one would plan anything else for me for that date.
The summons came in March, with the April 6 date. I filled out the questionnaire, as requested, and mailed back. According to the summons, I was a in a standby group, so with any luck, I wouldn't even have to go in, but I wouldn't know until after 5 p.m. on April 5, when they posted the instructions for jurors for the following day.
I called right at 5 p.m., and the recording had not yet been updated; a few minutes later, it was, and I got the news that I needed to report for duty the following morning.
The last time I had been in the big room on the 7th floor in the Fulton County Courthouse was when Sarah's mock trial team was there for the regional mock trial competition. Each school had an assigned area in that big room; some of them had pizza boxes and cartons of soft drinks or bottled water; our school had a full buffet with bread, cold cuts, condiments, salads, fruit, cookies, and chocolates.
This time, there was no food, only people who had come because they had to. They scattered themselves throughout the room. A few ignored the "No Cell Phone Use" signs but most were quiet, and if they talked at all, talked in a low voice like they were in a library, to the person sitting next to them. There were a few long tables across the front of the room, with chairs and electrical outlets; I had brought my laptop and spent an hour on email. Some people had brought books to read; the woman sitting closest to me - the one who watched my stuff when I went to the bathroom, and I did the same for her - was grading papers. But maybe half the people there had not brought anything with them at all, and they were just sitting. I still don't understand that. Maybe they had never been called for jury duty before, and thought they were going straight to the jury box and it was going to be just like Law and Order on television.
At 9:30, they started calling names. They told us to try to remember our number, but when they did call mine I was so focused on getting my laptop turned off and packed away that I forgot to listen, once they had called my name.
Only once before have I ever gotten sent to a courtroom for jury selection; usually I have just sat in that big room until they told me I could leave. That time, I was number 1, but they only needed 6 people to hear the trial (a lawsuit, I think, but I don't even remember) and I wasn't one of them. They spent maybe an hour on jury selection, and then I was on my way.
This time there were sixty of us, lined up in the corridor, waiting to file into the courtroom. I was number 35. Number 36 was very anxious; she was a dancer, and was scheduled to perform that night. Number 34 was trying to get some work done on his Blackberry before they brought us into the electronics-free zone in the courtroom. A few people who didn't have on the white "JUROR" stickers sat on the benches in the corridor in little clusters. A woman was crying in the women's bathroom, talking on her cellphone in Spanish. In the hallway, there were a couple of women with small children; they all looked really unhappy. If it's a child abuse case, the woman who had been grading papers told me, I just can't do it.
We finally got into courtroom, packed into the pews with laminated cards with our number as placecards. The judge thanked us for being there, and acknowledged that we probably didn't want to be, and that we probably thought that our standby status meant we wouldn't have to report at all. It was a long drive for those outside the perimeter to get to downtown Atlanta so early in the morning, and we had other things to do. But from our group, twelve people would be chosen to serve on a jury.
She read the indictment. Even with only the listing of charges, in the legal language of the grand jury, this was clearly a horrific crime. The judge asked questions of the group, and we responded by holding up our laminated cards. Did we know anything about the case? Did we know the victim, the defendant, any of the attorneys? Had we or our family members been the victim of crime, or been accused of a crime we didn't commit? Were we friends with judges or attorneys or police officers? Did we have training in science or medical training? Did we believe that a prostitute could not be a victim of sexual assault, or that an accused person had to prove their innocence? Did we think we couldn't be fair, or couldn't serve becauses it would be hardship? The lawyers watched us raise our hands, made notes, scrutinized us. When we broke for lunch, the judge told us to call the people we needed to call to say we might be busy for a few days. If we had said it would be a hardship, she expected us to do what we could to resolve the problem ourselves. And we were not to talk about the case among ourselves or with anyone else.
After lunch, they started individual interviews. The interviews were done in the privacy of the jury room, with the prosecutors on one side of the table and the defendant and his defense attorneys on the other side; the judge was at the end. Some were quick and some were not. Between 1:10 p.m., when they started, and 5:30 p.m., when they stopped for the day, they talked to the first 33 jurors. Juror 34 and I sighed; we would have to be back, with 36 through 60, at 10:30 in the morning to resume voir dire; 1 through 33 didn't have to come back until afternoon.
Before we left at the end of that first day, we were told not to look anything up about the case, not to talk to anyone, not to blog or Twitter or post on Facebook. We were back the next morning, 34 and 36 (she had made it to her performance, and was in a much better mood the second day) and on up to 60. The interviews went faster the second day; they only had a few questions for me (did I have any training in pathology? How long ago was that?).
So the attorneys had their notes and their lists, and when the time came to actually select the jury, the baliff carried the jury listing back and forth between the two tables. They wrote, they highlighted, they consulted others on their team, and twice they went up to talk to the judge. Then, suddenly, it was over. They called out names, and one by one 13 of us - 12 jurors and an alternate - made their way to the jury box. They didn't call me (too much pathology training or too little?) but they did call number 34. Then the judge thanked the rest of us for our patience and our service, and told us we could leave.
Outside, we scattered. I crossed the street to the parking deck with number 23, who had raised his hand the day before on all those questions about knowing lawyers and judges. Are you an attorney, I asked. He asked what had given him away - the pin stripe suit? the wingtip shoes? Actually, I told him, it was the answers to the questions the day before. I'm not that kind of lawyer, he told me. It was going to be an upsetting case, he said. I told him I had thought it was upsetting, just to hear the indictment read.
While we were waiting for the final jury selection, the prosecution brought in a cardboard box, with the victim's name written on the side. I hadn't remembered the names of either the defendant or the victim from the indictment. So when I got home, I did what I had been told not to do the night before - I did a Google search, and found out more about the victim, the defendant, and the crime. It was a terrible crime, and I was glad that after all these years it had not been forgotten. It was a relief, that evening, to be able to talk about it, if only to say that those events back in 1994 were horrific, and if the man on trial was the man who had committed the crime, that I hoped that the prosecution could make a very strong case.
There wasn't much about the trial in the newspaper, but every evening I looked for updates. The trial had started as soon as we were dismissed, at the end of the day on Wednesday. The prosecution finished presenting their case on Friday, and the defense was expected to call no witnesses; it was expected to go to the jury Friday afternoon. So the jury was going to have go home, and keep whatever horrors they had heard to themselves over the weekend, and then return Monday morning to resume deliberations.
Yesterday - Monday - there was a verdict.
Guilty, on all counts.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Spring, finally
It was such a long winter; it didn't seem like it would ever end. In so many recent years, the trees began blooming in February, the azaleas in March, and by April, it seemed to be summer. Not this year, though. The redbuds and tulip trees were first, maybe two weeks ago, followed by the cherry trees and Bradford pears. Last Sunday, walking to church, I noticed that the dogwood blossums were just starting to emerge but the trees - Bradford pears and everything else - really didn't have leaves. By Monday, they did. It was quite amazing, how suddenly everything started to be green. Even our ginkgo tree - which always seems to be the last tree on the block to break into leaf - is starting to get leaves.
At the sale a couple of weeks ago, I bought an apple tree from the Virginia Highlands group that is raising money to build a new park at Highland and St. Charles. It was bare root, and I didn't have time to plant it that day, so I wrapped the roots in a wet towel and left it on the driveway. It was cool and wet that day, so it seemed like it would probably be okay til I could get it in the ground, assuming it wasn't too long.
Iain and I planted it the next day. We dug a hole-that-seemed-to-be-bigger-than-it-needed-to-be in the back yard and mixed in some compost from the old site of the compost bin. (The new site has yet to yield compost, as it has been too cold for that particular magic to happen. Mostly we have a large quantity of garbage and paper, waiting for the weather to warm up.) We got the tree in the ground, and then we waited.
We may have to wait a couple years for apples, but like almost all the other trees, this is the week that our little apple tree broke alive with green leaves. Every day when I get home from work I go outside and look for new evidence of life, and there is a little more to see.
There also are stirrings on other fronts, after a long cold winter. Some of the vacant retail space in the neighborhood and beyond is starting to get occupied, store front by store front. The opening of a new discount furniture store at the site of the old Home Depot on Sidney Marcus completely filled the parking lot, and there's also a new furniture store at the former site of the pet supply store on Piedmont in the strip mall that was emptied Before the Crash to make way for something that to date has not been built.
Of course, one has to wonder how long it will take to absorb all the apartments and condos that Someone thought needed to be built in town. I drive by them and I see the buildings, mostly empty but with a few units looking occupied. (I was on my way to pick up Sarah at school and she called and asked where I was. Not far, I said, driving by the empty apartments on Piedmont. She asked, which ones?) Lights on timers and rented furniture, just so the place won't look so dismal, or are there really a few people living in these mostly empty buildings? What would it be like, living in a place meant for high density with no one there?
I have been slowly savoring Jane Jacobs' classic book, The Death and Life of Great American Cities. She makes a powerful case for it being lots of people that make a city feel safe. At night, if there are people on the sidewalk and lots of coming and going from bars and theaters and restaurants and people just getting off the evening shift or on their way to the night shift, the neighborhood will feel safe, but the same street, without the people, won't. Green space for the most part does not contribute to safety because at night it becomes a sort of urban no fly zone that doesn't attract any people; there's no reason to be there, and and because of that, it doesn't feel safe. For an urban environment to feel safe, you need lots of people coming and going into the night - and you don't have that without high density and diversity of use. Diversity of use is facilitated by having diversity of building stock - old buildings with interesting spaces can provide inexpensive commercial space for galleries and small restaurants and interesting little shops. If there are too many new buildings, rents are too high for anything interesting and there is no reason for people to be there who don't have to be.
So we now have all these - mostly empty - work/live developments, with really boring-looking retail space (a lot of which is empty) and all those empty apartments and condos. I am so glad to see signs of life in the economy - like the leaves on the trees outside, it is so welcome after a really long winter - but you just have to wonder what's going to happen to all these developments. It wouldn't be so bad, having these large, boring structures around if they were actually full of people who might provide the population density to support something interesting, but they aren't. Without people?
At least if they were green space they would soak up some CO2.
At the sale a couple of weeks ago, I bought an apple tree from the Virginia Highlands group that is raising money to build a new park at Highland and St. Charles. It was bare root, and I didn't have time to plant it that day, so I wrapped the roots in a wet towel and left it on the driveway. It was cool and wet that day, so it seemed like it would probably be okay til I could get it in the ground, assuming it wasn't too long.
Iain and I planted it the next day. We dug a hole-that-seemed-to-be-bigger-than-it-needed-to-be in the back yard and mixed in some compost from the old site of the compost bin. (The new site has yet to yield compost, as it has been too cold for that particular magic to happen. Mostly we have a large quantity of garbage and paper, waiting for the weather to warm up.) We got the tree in the ground, and then we waited.
We may have to wait a couple years for apples, but like almost all the other trees, this is the week that our little apple tree broke alive with green leaves. Every day when I get home from work I go outside and look for new evidence of life, and there is a little more to see.
There also are stirrings on other fronts, after a long cold winter. Some of the vacant retail space in the neighborhood and beyond is starting to get occupied, store front by store front. The opening of a new discount furniture store at the site of the old Home Depot on Sidney Marcus completely filled the parking lot, and there's also a new furniture store at the former site of the pet supply store on Piedmont in the strip mall that was emptied Before the Crash to make way for something that to date has not been built.
Of course, one has to wonder how long it will take to absorb all the apartments and condos that Someone thought needed to be built in town. I drive by them and I see the buildings, mostly empty but with a few units looking occupied. (I was on my way to pick up Sarah at school and she called and asked where I was. Not far, I said, driving by the empty apartments on Piedmont. She asked, which ones?) Lights on timers and rented furniture, just so the place won't look so dismal, or are there really a few people living in these mostly empty buildings? What would it be like, living in a place meant for high density with no one there?
I have been slowly savoring Jane Jacobs' classic book, The Death and Life of Great American Cities. She makes a powerful case for it being lots of people that make a city feel safe. At night, if there are people on the sidewalk and lots of coming and going from bars and theaters and restaurants and people just getting off the evening shift or on their way to the night shift, the neighborhood will feel safe, but the same street, without the people, won't. Green space for the most part does not contribute to safety because at night it becomes a sort of urban no fly zone that doesn't attract any people; there's no reason to be there, and and because of that, it doesn't feel safe. For an urban environment to feel safe, you need lots of people coming and going into the night - and you don't have that without high density and diversity of use. Diversity of use is facilitated by having diversity of building stock - old buildings with interesting spaces can provide inexpensive commercial space for galleries and small restaurants and interesting little shops. If there are too many new buildings, rents are too high for anything interesting and there is no reason for people to be there who don't have to be.
So we now have all these - mostly empty - work/live developments, with really boring-looking retail space (a lot of which is empty) and all those empty apartments and condos. I am so glad to see signs of life in the economy - like the leaves on the trees outside, it is so welcome after a really long winter - but you just have to wonder what's going to happen to all these developments. It wouldn't be so bad, having these large, boring structures around if they were actually full of people who might provide the population density to support something interesting, but they aren't. Without people?
At least if they were green space they would soak up some CO2.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Winter, continued
A month or so ago one of our neighbors commented that it had been a long time since I had posted anything. This surprised me. Not the part about it being a long time (I knew that) but the part about anyone noticing. Never having figured out how to tell if anyone is reading this, I assumed no one did. I stand corrected.
So there is lots of catching up to do. Here's a start.
Tom and I braved the after-Thanksgiving crowds to buy a new dishwasher. It turns itself off when the cycle is complete and has not threatened in any way to burn the house down, so we consider this a highly successful replacement.
The two big houses on the street that were on the market for so long have both sold and one has been occupied for a while; I'm not sure about the other one. I haven't yet met the new owners of either one. The weather has been cold and I have been busy - less time walking the dog or walking to the movie store or to the farmer's market or to Alon's - so I am not as up to speed on who is where as I used to be. Hopefully work will be better and the weather warmer soon! But it's good to not have empty houses on the street, so we are glad that these particular bits of residential real estate are off the market and providing a home for families.
But two houses are on the market - Amy has already moved to Grant Park, and a bigger place, and her house is for sale, as is another house up the street - new baby, need more space.
We had a snow day this month. The snow started falling on Friday afternoon, and by the time I got home from work, there was enough snow that the sleds were out, and the kids were converging on the hill at the church. It is a perfect place for sledding, with steep downward slopes that are away from the street. Iain went through a couple of changes of clothing before he came back, chilled and exhausted and exhilirated, the way 11 year old boys are after an hour of two of throwing snowballs with a group of other boys.
I heard on the national news either that evening or the following one that 49 of 50 states in the United States - all but Hawaii (which is a state, by the way) - had measurable snow that day. There was video of Mobile, Alabama, with less snow than Atlanta but children who were even more excited, and the inevitable report from Hartsfield-Jackson airport. That was the storm where the Washington, D.C., area got 30 inches of snow, and the talking points on global warming were revised to say that the storm proved that no such thing was happening.
The gravel is still on Cumberland Road from the ice storm that preceded the snow. The squirrels have learned to raid my suet feeder, and at least one of them has mastered jumping onto the window feeder. So the suet feeder is left empty, until Tom can find me a piece of sheet metal to protect it, and the window feeder is moved up higher.
Friends move out of the neighborhood; new people come. Kids on sleds. Squirrels on my birdfeeders. I'm looking forward to spring, this year more than usual. It's not been a good winter, with the economy, and the pandemic, and all the cold weather. It's time to start looking forward to warmer weather, spring planting, and nesting boxes for the birds. More time outside. Walk the dog. Meet the new neighbors. Plan a block party. The dishwasher still works, and winter won't go on forever.
So there is lots of catching up to do. Here's a start.
Tom and I braved the after-Thanksgiving crowds to buy a new dishwasher. It turns itself off when the cycle is complete and has not threatened in any way to burn the house down, so we consider this a highly successful replacement.
The two big houses on the street that were on the market for so long have both sold and one has been occupied for a while; I'm not sure about the other one. I haven't yet met the new owners of either one. The weather has been cold and I have been busy - less time walking the dog or walking to the movie store or to the farmer's market or to Alon's - so I am not as up to speed on who is where as I used to be. Hopefully work will be better and the weather warmer soon! But it's good to not have empty houses on the street, so we are glad that these particular bits of residential real estate are off the market and providing a home for families.
But two houses are on the market - Amy has already moved to Grant Park, and a bigger place, and her house is for sale, as is another house up the street - new baby, need more space.
We had a snow day this month. The snow started falling on Friday afternoon, and by the time I got home from work, there was enough snow that the sleds were out, and the kids were converging on the hill at the church. It is a perfect place for sledding, with steep downward slopes that are away from the street. Iain went through a couple of changes of clothing before he came back, chilled and exhausted and exhilirated, the way 11 year old boys are after an hour of two of throwing snowballs with a group of other boys.
I heard on the national news either that evening or the following one that 49 of 50 states in the United States - all but Hawaii (which is a state, by the way) - had measurable snow that day. There was video of Mobile, Alabama, with less snow than Atlanta but children who were even more excited, and the inevitable report from Hartsfield-Jackson airport. That was the storm where the Washington, D.C., area got 30 inches of snow, and the talking points on global warming were revised to say that the storm proved that no such thing was happening.
The gravel is still on Cumberland Road from the ice storm that preceded the snow. The squirrels have learned to raid my suet feeder, and at least one of them has mastered jumping onto the window feeder. So the suet feeder is left empty, until Tom can find me a piece of sheet metal to protect it, and the window feeder is moved up higher.
Friends move out of the neighborhood; new people come. Kids on sleds. Squirrels on my birdfeeders. I'm looking forward to spring, this year more than usual. It's not been a good winter, with the economy, and the pandemic, and all the cold weather. It's time to start looking forward to warmer weather, spring planting, and nesting boxes for the birds. More time outside. Walk the dog. Meet the new neighbors. Plan a block party. The dishwasher still works, and winter won't go on forever.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
