Nothing funny about feldspar

My Sister’s Child has been married off, and so the last of my familial obligations have been met. I went to the wedding, which was both nice and uncomfortable as many weddings are, ate a bit of cake, wished the happy couple a good future, and left.

On the trip down there I stopped a couple of places, including the state department of vital statistics because I wanted to get copies of my parents’ birth certificates. Except for the trouble finding the place, it was a relatively painless experience — nice for dealing with bureaucracy. This office only does birth and death certs, so they’ve got their system down pretty pat.

You go in, fill out a form requesting the document, hand it to a guy who checks that they have it, then go pay at another window, and then after a brief time (I spent 20 minutes total) the first guy calls you up to pick up your papers.

How interesting it must be, when you get people like me who are trying to do some genealogy research. I went in, knowing my grandmother was not married when Mom was born, but unsure what name my mother had on her birth certificate. So I put both names on there — Grandma’s maiden name (let’s call it Finney) and Mom’s childhood name (let’s call it Jones) and said I wasn’t sure which was on it.

The guy looked it up, said he’d found it and I could go pay and then I’d get it in a few minutes. When he handed it to me, he had a little grin on his face.

So of course I looked at the cert right away. Mom was listed under “Finney”, but “Jones” didn’t appear anywhere on the page. Mom’s dad was “Smith” — a man I had never heard of, and who has very little tracking in the Ancestry.com databases.

They’re all dead, so I can’t ask them what the story is. Which is too bad, but really, how different is that from any other family’s stories? We all have the ones we’d rather not go into, the tales where we don’t really tell the whole story. They become part of the fabric of the family, even if the weave is a little loose.

[Insert sheepish rationalizations here]

I bought a new iPhone last week, and I must say I’m very happy with it. However, you must understand that I almost never use the phone part, so the locally spotty AT&T network that frustrates many of my colleagues simply doesn’t affect me.

I also bought a lovely case for it (though I don’t like the screen protector, so that will be changed as soon as I get around to it).

I was finding it a little weird to have only one pocket gadget instead of two (cell phone and iPod Touch), so I bought also another gadget — a pico projector. More on this later, once I’ve had a chance to do more than just hook it up…

I’m a failure at podcasts.

There. I said it. Oh, no, not *making* podcasts, which I know better than to try — my speaking ability is not particularly clear or coherent; I mumble, stumble and have a goofy accent — but in *listening* to podcasts.

I’ve tried the ones based on NPR radio shows, you know, so I can listen to a show when *I* want to, instead of trying to remember when it’s being aired. However, I tend to be happy to run across a show while driving or cooking or whatever, and I don’t ever say “hey, don’t forget to listen Saturday at 6!” (I’m the same way with television, with the exception of the late, lamented BSG, and even then I merely pointed out the hour to the other denizens of the house.)

I’ve tried listening to shows I once liked when we lived in Pennsylvania, but that aren’t played here. Nope, not the same.

I’ve tried listening to shows by “podcasters” rather than just repackaged radio, and I thought for a while it would be interesting, like listening in on a conversation, or getting a small dose of history, or laughing at a few jokes. But it hasn’t worked out.

Perhaps I’m just picking the wrong ones (though one in particular came very highly recommended by friends), but like talk radio (or “morning show” chatter), this stuff is all just boring to me. I really prefer serendipity, I suppose. Filling up my iPod requires too much planning.

Hmm, now I’m wondering if there is a service that will send out a random podcast…

My father was divorced twice before he married my mother.

My father’s mother and father divorced when he was young.¹

My mother was divorced once before she married my father.

My mother’s mother and father may not have been married, but they broke up sometime after having children.

My mother’s mother and her second husband were married for 30 years when she died.

My mother and father were married for 48 years, until he died.

Plagioclase’s father was divorced once before he married Plagioclase’s mother.

Plagioclase’s mother and father were married for 44 years, until he died.

My sister is married to her first husband, and has been for 27 years.

Two of Plagioclase’s half-brothers are married to their first wives, and each has been married for over 50 years.

One of Plagioclase’s half-brothers is married to his second wife, and they have been married for over 30 years.

I have been married to my only husband (Plagioclase) for 21 years.

Why exactly is divorce bad?

1. I was not sure of this until I found a letter from the ’50s where my dad talks about finding and getting to know his father and brother.↩

I’ve been preoccupied lately with family and genealogy. I decided to make a little photo essay for My Sister’s Child’s wedding, but as I know it won’t be particularly appreciated until 20 years from now, I also decided to do a little family-tree research to give MSC something to add to when we’re all dead.

To aid this process, I’ve signed up for an account at ancestry.com (it’s free for 2 weeks) and started filling in the blanks on our family tree. It’s got lots of holes — my parents were more-or-less estranged from their families, moreso once my mother’s parents died.

Therefore, most of my “ancestor” boxes are filled with conjecture. Once past my parents, my confidence in my family tree assignment goes down rather dramatically. That’s ok, though — I’m working with data that is most me remembering little details that my parents told me over the years.

Details such as “My granddad was a vet,” which came from Dad. I always thought it was his mother’s father, but it turns out it was his father’s father. How do I know this? Well, my Dad was born before the 1930 census (the last one available to the public until 2012) and he has an unusual name. (Not his last name — that’s as common as candles — but his forenames.) I found him in the 1930 census, living near the town vet, who had his same last name. So that’s a big assumption, but I think it’s a reasonable one.

Anyway, following though that connection, and someone’s generous transcription of a bunch of tombstones in what seems to be a family cemetery, I learned the maiden name of Dad’s grandmother. So, my confidence level goes way down, until……..

So Dad’s grandmother’s father once reported to the US Census that he was born in Wales. Then at another Census he said his father was Spanish. Then on a third he reported that he was born in United States Of America…. Assuming I’ve been following the right person, this sounds just like something my Dad (or I) would do Perhaps we’re related after all.