International and National Rock Day

Rock hunting, hounding, picking, collecting, foraging(?) - any discriptor you want to use - there are only a few things I like better than hunting for rocks.

From the time I was old enough to be sent to fetch the milk cows and walked over the newly turned earth of the field east of the barn, I've been collecting rocks. Mom knew to send me out early because I dawdled over looking at and picking up every rock that caught my eye.

I get more excited about rocks than gem stones. I treasure the millions of years old geodes and petrified wood I've found, but I don't have to be able to identify what a rock is to love it. It only has to appeal to me - color, size, shape - I'll pick it up and carry it home.

If it's too big, I'll sit on it for a photo. 😄

Sabino Canyon near Tucson, AZ

Oh, and foraging? Generally foraging refers to hunting/searching for food either for human or animal consumption. But rock hunting feeds my soul, so foraging seems apt to me.

I have been to all the lower 48 states and brought home rocks from almost all of them.

I also have a chunk of Connemara marble I brought home from Ireland.

One of "the rarest forms of marble in the world" it is used as a building material as well as decoration and in jewelry.

The piece I brought back is the one on the left. The "Be" stone is one I bought in Oregon. I forget where I bought the large Celtic decorated stone.

The small smooth stone at the bottom right is my other international rock.

It was brought back by a friend who found it along the coast of the North Sea in Scotland.

She also brought me many rocks from her home in Tucson. 

I treasure them all. 

More treasures from a rock hunt near Mt. Etna three years ago.

I was, and still am, enthralled by that honey gold rock(?) second from the left in the tier below the large stone in this photo.

I'm convinced it is the petrified plastron (underneath side) of a turtle.

Rock hunting was a favorite pastime with my grandchildren when they were young. 

They made it the theme of my 80th birthday party - which I loved.

Happy National/International Rock Day! 😎💛

Another Irish Great-grandfather

One of the best things about the ancestry website I use (Family Search) is the connections it will make for the user once your own family tree is started. Often you will receive new information which happened again for me this morning.

When I saw the name of my 5X great-grandfather, Alexander Lowry, and that he was born in Ireland, I assumed it was going to be on my father's side of the family through the Lynam's. Surprise! It was on my mother's side and through the Mean's. 

It goes like this beginning with my Grandmother Delphia Means Ridnour: Delphia Means father, George Robert Means - his father Oscar Isaac Means to his mother, Sarah A. Evans to her mother, Frances Lowry who was the daughter of Alexander Lowry, my 5X great-grandfather - born in 1723 in Derry, County Donegal, Ireland; died in 1805 in Donegal Twp, Lancaster, PA. He immigrated to Pennsylvania in 1729 where, in 1752, he married Mary Waters. 

Colonel Alexander Lowrey (last name spelled both ways) commanded a battalion of Pennsylvania Militia during the Revolutionary War. He was in the Battles of Germantown and Brandywine. He was a delegate to Carpenter's Hall in Philadelphia where the resolution in favor of independence was passed.

He, along with his father, uncle and brothers, were Indian traders in Pennsylvania and the Ohio River Valley.  He died near Marietta, PA in 1805. 

I do see that I can follow Alexander's parents, James Lazarus Lowry, Jr. and Elizabeth Etta Campbell much further back, especially on the Campbell side, but I will save that for another day. 

There Was A Third Verse?

Ada Limón is the 24th Poet Laureate of the United States. I hadn't been aware of her poems until a couple of days ago on the anniversary of our nation's birth. 

This one really spoke to me. I do feel that the meaning of our flag has been expropriated.

A New National Anthem

BY ADA LIMÓN

The truth is, I’ve never cared for the National

Anthem. If you think about it, it’s not a good

song. Too high for most of us with “the rockets

red glare” and then there are the bombs.

(Always, always, there is war and bombs.)

Once, I sang it at homecoming and threw

even the tenacious high school band off key.

But the song didn’t mean anything, just a call

to the field, something to get through before

the pummeling of youth. And what of the stanzas

we never sing, the third that mentions “no refuge

could save the hireling and the slave”? Perhaps,

the truth is, every song of this country

has an unsung third stanza, something brutal

snaking underneath us as we blindly sing

the high notes with a beer sloshing in the stands

hoping our team wins. Don’t get me wrong, I do

like the flag, how it undulates in the wind

like water, elemental, and best when it’s humbled,

brought to its knees, clung to by someone who

has lost everything, when it’s not a weapon,

when it flickers, when it folds up so perfectly

you can keep it until it’s needed, until you can

love it again, until the song in your mouth feels

like sustenance, a song where the notes are sung

by even the ageless woods, the short-grass plains,

the Red River Gorge, the fistful of land left

unpoisoned, that song that’s our birthright,

that’s sung in silence when it’s too hard to go on,

that sounds like someone’s rough fingers weaving

into another’s, that sounds like a match being lit

in an endless cave, the song that says my bones

are your bones, and your bones are my bones,

and isn’t that enough?

It's Lynam - Not Lyman

When I was a youngster, before there were interstate highways, if we wanted or needed to go to Omaha, we took highway #34 west out of Corning to Tenville and turned north onto highway #71 which we took to Lyman where we turned left onto highway #92 and followed through Griswold, Carson, Treynor, Council Bluffs and across the Missouri River into Omaha.

One of the things that struck me most about the trip, other than how long it was and how big Omaha was, is that one, there was a town named after my family and two, whoever made the sign spelled our name wrong! It was most likely my mother who set my thinking straight - that the town really was Lyman and not Lynam. Over the years new highway 71 went around Lyman instead of through and the town all but disappeared. Today it looks like there is a church and a used auto dealership. 

It took some searching around to find that the town was named for Joseph Lyman.  He was a Major in the Civil War, a lawyer and a circuit court judge before being elected as a Republican to the United States House of Representatives from SW Iowa's 9th Congressional District. 

Over my lifetime I've had to correct the mispronunciation and the misspelling of my last name many times and always to my consternation. 

It's line um, not lynn am, not lie man. It's the Irish Lynam not the English Lyman.  💚🍀

Thank you. Now I'll get off my soapbox. 😣

Reminded of a Hometown Elder

Reading the morning news, as I do every morning, I saw the nickname 'Dode'. The person's given name wasn't mentioned so I wondered what it might be. One site suggested it was a nickname for someone named Roger or Robert. While I found 'Dod' was a Scottish nickname for George. Another said the meaning of the name Dode was of Hebrew origin meaning beloved or uncle.

I had assumed it would be a nickname for Theodore, as the only person I had ever heard of that went by Dode was an older man who lived with his daughter across the street from my Grandmother Bessie. I remembered that Dode had goats and that he made candy from their milk - caramels, I think. I also had heard stories of the many times some of the high school boys would turn the goats lose on Halloween where they would be found wandering the streets the next morning. 

His daughter Almira was my high school physical education teacher. She was also a Campfire Girls and Girl Scouts leader. She and her father taught swimming lessons at Lake Binder where my older brother learned. I remember hearing how she and her father would swim clear across the lake and back which I thought was a major feat. 

While looking for more information about Dode, I found this snippet from the July 15, 1897 issue of The Adams County Free Press. It mentions the 300 yard race at the state firemen's tournament that he ran in 31 seconds - a world record at that time.

It goes on to say that his speed was due in measure to his exceptional physical organization. "His heart beats but 54 times to the minute in the normal way, while the average man's heart palpitates 70 times. Mr. Turner also holds the long distance diving championship at Princeton, due to his ability to remain under water 3 minutes and 37 seconds. To remain a minute would be fatal to most people."

I still don't know anymore about the nickname 'Dode', but I now know more about the person I only knew as an old man who lived across the street from my Grandma.

Pretty impressive.

A Letter From Home

I went looking for a poem about July, specifically a poem by Mary Oliver about July. Instead I found this poem of her's which makes me think so much of my Mom that I ache. I wish I had saved more of my Mother's letters to me over the years, but they were of everyday happenings - nothing 'important' enough to save. The poem is about a garden in autumn; the picture is of my mother in summer with her garden in the background.

A Letter From Home (By Mary Oliver)

She sends me news of blue jays, frost,
Of stars and now the harvest moon
That rides above the stricken hills.
Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,
And lists what is already lost.
Here where my life seems hard and slow,
I read of glowing melons piled
Beside the door, and baskets filled
With fennel, rosemary and dill,
While all she could not gather in
Or hid in leaves, grow black and falls.
Here where my life seems hard and strange,
I read her wild excitement when
Stars climb, frost comes, and blue jays sing.
The broken year will make no change
Upon her wise and whirling heart; -
She knows how people always plan
To live their lives, and never do.
She will not tell me if she cries.

I touch the crosses by her name;
I fold the pages as I rise,
And tip the envelope, from which
Drift scraps of borage, woodbine, rue.

All the years I lived a distance away from her, Mom and I exchanged letters. Oh, there were some phone calls, but they "ran up our phone bills" so those were saved for immediate news. Mom was still gardening when I moved 'back home'. She kept her hoe sharpened - weeds didn't stand a chance.  

I know how much of my knowledge came from her and her 'wise and whirling heart'. 

Chasing Down Etta and Ella

You would think Etta and Ella might be sisters - twins even. But one of them is my relative and the other a relative of Bud's. And I had reason to track both of them back on our family trees the past few days.

I called brother Ron last week to tell him about our brother-in-law Gene's heart attack which required the placement of one stent. Gene is doing fine - life flighted to a Des Moines hospital Wednesday and home here on Friday. He is as cheerful and upbeat as ever.

Back to my story - Ron asked me if I knew who Etta Mauderly was. He had found a photo, circa mid 1930's, of our mother, Ruth, and another young woman. On the back was written "Ruth and Etta Mauderly". I thought about it and told him I could not think of any Mauderly girls around the same age as Mom. I decided they would have to be the daughter of one of the Mauderly boys, but which one? I told Ron I would research and call him back if I was able to locate her.

I remembered names of three male Mauderly's, Joseph, Jerome and Corwin. I knew Joseph was Great-grandma Kate's brother. I thought Jerome was his son and I was right. But it took me awhile to find the right Jerome because if you just Google 'Jerome Mauderly' you get all kinds of stories about Jerome "Jerry" Mauderly and how he shot and killed an escaped inmate who had broken into the Mauderly's farm home as they slept and then held him and his wife hostage - until Jerry managed to get his shotgun. Jerry is the son of Jerome's son Corwin. And by the way, I like the name Jerome and love the name Corwin.

Jerome and Zoa Mauderly had four daughters in addition to son Corwin. One of the girls was the Etta of the photo my brother had.

She and husband Sterling Wisecup lived in Black Hawk County, Iowa. I found this photo of her with her obituary. She died in 2019, aged 94. 

I called my brother back and told him I found Etta Mauderly. Now I really want to see the photo he has of our mother and Etta together.

He wasn't surprised I found her. I said I love doing this kind of genealogical sleuthing. He said: "I know you do." 

Which brings us to Ella. Bud's cousin, Terry Plowman, died Saturday. I asked him how they were related and he wasn't sure, just that it was on his Dad's side. So I found Terry's mother's obituary and followed her lineage back. Hazel Plowman's mother was Ella Schaffer Moore. Ella was the daughter of William and Elizabeth Schaffer and William Franklin Schaffer was their son. i.e. Ella and Bill were brother and sister. Bill Schaffer was LaVerne Schaffer, Sr.'s dad - Bud's grandfather. And Ella was Terry's grandmother, making them first cousins. So Bud and Terry would be second cousins.

Just to further muddy the waters - Terry's wife, Ronda, and I are first cousins - our mothers were sisters. Oh what tangled webs we weave when we chase the genealogical rabbit. 🐰😊 (But for me, it is so much fun.) 💞