Caroline left for college on Wednesday. There was lots of last minute stuff left to do, those last couple of days, but Tom and Sarah drove her to Athens on Wednesday and got her moved into the dorm. A big step for her, and for us.
During the last few days before she left, I was thinking about when I went off to college. The first roommate who only lasted a few days before she decided she wanted to go back home (I don't think it was anything I did). The freedom from attending class, all day long every day, yet the classes were so much better and covered so much more, compared with my high school classes. New friends, almost all from the honors dorm or my honors classes, some of whom I've kept in touch with and I still consider myself close to, even if we aren't as good about keeping in touch as we intend to be. Some classes I still remember (admittedly, not that many) and a professor and his wife who are still friends.
In those days - in a different era - you had to pay for out-of-town phone calls and my raised-during-the-Depression-era parents didn't make long distance calls unless there was some news to convey that wouldn't wait for a letter. So we didn't talk much on the phone, but they wrote me letters, and I wrote them back. Presumably I exercised some sort of judgment and didn't tell them the stuff they really didn't need to know. But that was it - that's how we kept in touch.
Since Caroline left, we haven't heard much from her, but Sarah gets text messages (they are sisters, and that's how sisters now talk, apparently) and I see the updates to her Facebook friends. The only communication I've gotten that was more than a brief answer to a question by Facebook message was when she wanted me to order a couple of items from Amazon.
And that's okay. She's gone away to college and her parents are no longer supposed to be deeply entangled in the everyday minutiae of her life. We could be in touch almost all the time, but we shouldn't; still, I can see totally how new technology has totally enabled helicopter parenting at a whole new level.
I'm trying hard to not be that parent.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Family Reunion
Last weekend, Tom and Iain and I went to Dallas, North Carolina, for the Rhyne Family Reunion. It was interesting and I'm glad I went - a room full of people at a Lutheran church in Dallas, most of whom I am very distantly related to, but none of whom I've ever met before. There has been an enormous amount of work done over the years by a lot of different people, so it's not so hard for most Rhyne descendants to figure out where they fit into the family tree (although there are way too many Jacob Rhynes, and there is some confusion about which one's which, for a few of them). We put colored dots on our name tags on Saturday, to indicate which branch of the Rhyne family we are from - Iain and I had an orange dots, as a descendants of Johan Philip Rhyne, my great-great-great-great-grandfather. (Some people had multiple dots, since there was lots of intertwining of branches of family trees in the past.) There were photos taken for each group of descendants; Johan Philip had a medium-sized group, but I think for some of them there was no one there at all. There were photos of the oldest person there (age 99) and of the kids who were there.
I lived in North Carolina for three years, during the 1980s. I had no idea, at the time, that if I were to look far enough back, I had ancestors who came there when it was still a British colony. (There are other North Carolina connections too - the Smiths weren't far from Gaston/Lincoln County, and I have wondered if there might be some intertwining in my own family tree.)
I remember, years ago, having breakfast in a hotel dining room with a coworker who told me about her family's reunions. Every year there was a big event attended by the entire extended family. It sounded like fun to me, although I feel like I'm doing well to keep in touch with my cousins by email. My children have said - incorrectly - that "they have no relatives" since their grandparents have all died and neither Tom nor I have surviving siblings, or any nieces or nephews. Before the Rhyne reunion, Sarah asked if we would come home with T-shirts. I said I didn't think so. (For the record, we didn't; it was a no-T-shirt reunion, although I suppose it's not too late to make one if we want one.)
The part that interests me about all this is less how far I can trace things back (the farther back you get, the less you know about the people), but the stories. My grandmother, born in Indian Territory, was the oldest of 6 children; at age 14, she drove the family's second covered wagon into Greer County (now Oklahoma, but I think it was part of Texas then). Her father Joel is said to have been a handsome man with curly black hair and a mustache; he lived with his family in many different places and moved around a lot. Was he always looking for opportunities or getting away from something? A child is buried in Arkansas; the family briefly moved to Oregon, but then they returned to Oklahoma; he died in Texas. He's named after his father's nephew who died at the siege of Port Hudson during the Civil War. There are towns that flourished and then faded away, as agriculture and transportation changed.
When Gaston County was split off from Lincoln County, Dallas became the county seat, and was a thriving town in the mid-nineteenth century. But the railroad didn't go through Dallas (at least according to Wikipedia, the county commissioners refused to appropriate funds to build bridges across the creeks because they thought the trains would awaken people at night and frighten the livestock) and in 1911 the county seat was moved to Gastonia. We visited Moses Rhyne's store, built in 1850, and the old Hoffman hotel, that is now the Gaston County Museum.
There was a guest speaker at the reunion, who talked about her grandmother making quilts, and all the memories that were in those quilts - bits of cloth from clothing she remembered - and how she now makes quilts for her own family, sewing into them names and dates. I wish I had done a better job of capturing somehow the stories my parents told me, and that I had asked more questions, and that I had written down the answers. But absent that, there are still stories to learn. This time, I do need to write them down.
I lived in North Carolina for three years, during the 1980s. I had no idea, at the time, that if I were to look far enough back, I had ancestors who came there when it was still a British colony. (There are other North Carolina connections too - the Smiths weren't far from Gaston/Lincoln County, and I have wondered if there might be some intertwining in my own family tree.)
I remember, years ago, having breakfast in a hotel dining room with a coworker who told me about her family's reunions. Every year there was a big event attended by the entire extended family. It sounded like fun to me, although I feel like I'm doing well to keep in touch with my cousins by email. My children have said - incorrectly - that "they have no relatives" since their grandparents have all died and neither Tom nor I have surviving siblings, or any nieces or nephews. Before the Rhyne reunion, Sarah asked if we would come home with T-shirts. I said I didn't think so. (For the record, we didn't; it was a no-T-shirt reunion, although I suppose it's not too late to make one if we want one.)
The part that interests me about all this is less how far I can trace things back (the farther back you get, the less you know about the people), but the stories. My grandmother, born in Indian Territory, was the oldest of 6 children; at age 14, she drove the family's second covered wagon into Greer County (now Oklahoma, but I think it was part of Texas then). Her father Joel is said to have been a handsome man with curly black hair and a mustache; he lived with his family in many different places and moved around a lot. Was he always looking for opportunities or getting away from something? A child is buried in Arkansas; the family briefly moved to Oregon, but then they returned to Oklahoma; he died in Texas. He's named after his father's nephew who died at the siege of Port Hudson during the Civil War. There are towns that flourished and then faded away, as agriculture and transportation changed.
When Gaston County was split off from Lincoln County, Dallas became the county seat, and was a thriving town in the mid-nineteenth century. But the railroad didn't go through Dallas (at least according to Wikipedia, the county commissioners refused to appropriate funds to build bridges across the creeks because they thought the trains would awaken people at night and frighten the livestock) and in 1911 the county seat was moved to Gastonia. We visited Moses Rhyne's store, built in 1850, and the old Hoffman hotel, that is now the Gaston County Museum.
The former Hoffman hotel, now the Gaston County Museum |
The Moses Rhyne store, now an antique shop |
There was a guest speaker at the reunion, who talked about her grandmother making quilts, and all the memories that were in those quilts - bits of cloth from clothing she remembered - and how she now makes quilts for her own family, sewing into them names and dates. I wish I had done a better job of capturing somehow the stories my parents told me, and that I had asked more questions, and that I had written down the answers. But absent that, there are still stories to learn. This time, I do need to write them down.
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