Conventional Wisdom.

A little break from the musical mystery tour (don't worry, I'll get back to it). My mom was an Episcopal nun. I've mentioned this before. She was born in Cincinnati, lived out West, then Florida, then in Cincinnati at the Convent of the Transfiguration as a Sister, then to various outposts owned by the Convent, then back to Cincinnati, where she died six years ago. As we traveled North, Tyler, Lady Di and I zigged a little off course, and stopped in Cincinnati to see the sisters . We worshiped, ate and visited with Sister Teresa and the crew. Later, we ate ice cream at Graeter's, a confectionery of note in the Cincinnati area, then headed to the cemetery to visit mom's grave. When we got there, the gates were closed and locked. The brave nun who escorted us was undetered. As is her habit, the sister was in full nun garb when she popped in to the abutting Baptist church to announce our presence. There, the plot thickened. As Sister met with surprised quasi-clergy, Ty and I scaled the fence (well, Tyler vaulted it. I sort of oozed over it), and paid our respects. While I'm not totally sure mom would've approved; I doubt she'd've been surprised (love you, mom). The next day, we were on the road again.

Vacation.

I got a vacation coming up. Got me to thinking about stuff. Dangerous, I know. I've heard lots of folks saying, "Life's a journey, not a destination". Maybe. 'Course, that's not the way my dad viewed trips. Like a lot of dads, he was all about getting there. Rocketing down the highway at a few miles an hour above the posted limit, windows cracked a half inch to allow some of the smoke from the chain-smoked Pall Malls to leave the car. Bathroom breaks? "You should've thought about that before we left". Dad was a classic guys' guy, who always voted Republican and who rooted against Muhammad Ali (or, as Dad would say, "Cassius Clay"), because he was a draft-dodger. But there are other memories, too. Like on a trip to New Smyna Beach, Florida, when dad suddenly stopped the car to pick up and relocate a turtle that was trying to cross the road so it wouldn't get run over. So, we should try to get where we're going, but we need to remember, at every moment, we're also already there. Or, as John Travolta said as the angel Michael, "You gotta learn to laugh".

Alison M. and the Deathly Hallows.

Brother Andy and his lovely daughter, Alison, stopped by at the conclusion of their college tour last weekend. Andy and Ali visited Emory, Wake Forest, Elon, Furman, Duke, UNC, and UVa, then spent the night in the Boro (which is about half-way between Charlottesville and Tampa). Ali's a smart gal, you see; and she has choices. I'm fairly sure she's never made anything but an "A" in any class she's taken, and her S.A.T. scores got her an invite to apply to all sorts of schools, including Yale. Yeah, yeah, but more impressive still...


...is that she proudly sports earrings inspired by Harry's Potter's "Deathly Hallows".

I'm Almost 50...

What? Fifty-one is almost fifty, right? My darling daughter, Caroline, and her boyfriend, Jay, joined us for dinner last night. In addition to the lovely strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting pictured at left, we had grilled Omaha Filet Mignon, garlicky mashed potatoes, zucchini and summer squash with feta cheese, and a fine bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. I'd say it went off with a bang.

I Want My Mummy (or Zombie Day at St. Jude's).

My mom was a nun. I've mentioned this before, but I may have neglected to mentioned that a mummy may have helped push mommy to run to be a nun. This shouldn't shock you: There're plenty of monsters in the Bible. There are the god/human giants called the Nephilim, of course. And this Sunday past was, apparently, Zombie Day at St. Jude's (and, at many churches who use the Lectionary). First, we started in the Old Testament with Ezekiel's prophesy of God's raising the dead in the
Valley of Dry Bones. After a brief stop-over for sin and death in Romans, we have more gore in John's account of the raising of Lazarus Now, the dude had been dead for, what, four days? Jesus' friend, Martha, said the body'd be stinking by now, but Jesus went on ahead thusly: "Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face". So, what do you think Mary and Martha saw when their brother walked out? A zombie or a mummy, maybe.


Which brings me back to mom and the mummy. AndyMan and I used to torment poor mom (or maybe it was just me. It's been a long time). We'd play tricks on her. "Mom, do these socks smell clean?" was mild. We (or maybe just me) stacked a wig-holder on top of a cloaked hat-rack in mom's closet one day. She wasn't sufficiently startled, so I enlisted my buddy, Russ, to play another trick on her. We wrapped Russ' face in an Ace bandage, gave him a black hat, and a long coat, and stuck him in mom's walk-in closet. Mom always came home from work, went to her walk-in closet to get rid of her coat, and came out to make us supper. You could count on it. Well, for some reason, Mom decided to change her clothes outside of her closet on this particular day. Russ, understandably, panicked. He had no desire to see mom changing her clothes, so he stepped out of the closet and said, "Hey, Mrs. Mathews. Do not be afraid. It's me, Russ". 'Course, Russ had an Ace bandage around his face, so what mom heard was "Rrr Grr Uhh Grr Hmmmph!", which scared mom a lot. Did it contribute to her later decision to join a convent? Well, it couldn't've hurt.

Princess Caroline

I've developed an interest, of late, in my ancestry. I know my dad's mom's family came from Sweden, but I know next to nothing about my dad's dad's family. I've had a little better luck on my mom's side. Over New Year's weekend, I visited my mom's brother: my Uncle Bob. On occasion- and on this occasion- I inquire(d) as to our mutual heritage: the Blackfords. Alas, Uncle Bob has only been able to determine the Blackford line with certainty back, I think, to his great-great-great-grandfather whose parents met the fate that befell an alarming number of my kinsmen: "killed by Indians". With somewhat less certainty, but with reasonable surmise, he links us with the author of "War Years with Jeb Stuart", written by Lt. Col. W.W. Blackford, C.S.A., who was Major General Stuart's Adjutant during the Civil War. I'm looking forward to reading it (once I get done with "Peace Like a River").

Thanks to his (and my mom's) cousin Paula, I already know a great deal about my mom's mom's family. Cousin Paula put together an amazing text tracing several of her grand-parents' (my great-grandparents') lines back to Malcolm II, King of Scotland. Following the tradition of those Celtic Kings, he tacked on the prevailing genealogy of the time and traced the line back to (gulp) Adam and Eve. One day a few years ago, I passed this along to my daughter, Caroline, who told a boy that she kinda liked that she was descended from a Scottish King. Caroline's friend, Phillip, caused me more than a little pain, but I'll always be grateful for his response to Caroline's comment: "Gee, Caroline, you might be a Princess". Well, she's my Princess, anyway.

New Year's Daze.

New Year's weekend was a stone groove. Lady Di and I kennelled the dogs and left the Boro for Central Florida. We had a New Year's Eve luncheon with AndyMan and niece Allison at Uncle Bob and Aunt Maggie's home in Orlando. The Blackfords are always good company, and Aunt Maggie made sure, as she always does, that we had lots of good food to eat. After lunch, Diane and I donned our Florida State University Seminoles gear and watched the Chick-fil-A Bowl at an area sports bar. South Carolina fought gamely, but the 'Noles prevailed. I'm generally a Gamecock fan, and I've boasted of the 'Cock's baseball championship; however, I'm an FSU alum, so I'll happily collect the four or five one dollar bets I'd wagered on the 'Noles. Saturday, we dragged our carcasses out of bed and headed for the Citrus Bowl to watch the University of Alabama Crimson Tide (whose mascot is, inexplicably, an elephant), battle the Michigan State University Spartans.

There's Lady Di outside of the Citrus Bowl. The weather was perfect. 78 Degrees and sunny. The atmosphere crackled with the hopes of fans of both teams. We consumed normally forbidden food like hot dogs, chips, french fries, and big bottles of coke, and, er, ... dang, where's the bathroom?


Apparently, we weren't the only fans who'd over-imbibed.

Even mascots gotta wait their turn!


The Crimson Tide inundated the Citrus Bowl. The joint was crawling with 'Bama fans.


And their allegiance runs deep, too. This gal's wearing a shirt in tribute to legendary 'Bama coach Paul "Bear" Bryant. The Bear's been dead longer than this fan has been alive, but she knows all about him. How does 'Bama get fans so loyal?


They start 'em young.

Like I said...

Spartan fans were probably outnumbered four to one. The lot that showed was spirited, though.


Now, that's a hat, right there.


These lads had spirit (must not care for math, though: I tried to get them to spell "S-U-M", and they said it didn't add up).


The end-zone is a pretty cool place to watch a game. Hard to tell how many yards either team got from play to play, but you don't get a view like this one on the fifty yard-line.


...or this. If you want to get a decent idea of how the third best team in the SEC destroyed the co-champions of the Big Ten, then just look at the blocking on this play. The Tide played bigger, stronger, and faster than the Spartans.

MSU's football team took a pounding, but the band rocked the house at half-time.

The game got ugly. At 42 to zip late in the second half, we joined the throng of Spartan fans in a funereal procession back to our cars. Still, it was a lot of fun (and the Spartan fans took some solace in knowing their team was, at least, the best team in their state, which, as any Auburn fan will tell you, was not true for the Tide. War Eagle!).

Santa, You Sleigh Me.

Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker, David Banner and I all have alter-egos. The first three assume the identities of Batman, Spiderman and the Incredible Hulk, in order to fight crime and their inner demons. Most years, I assume the persona of the Big Guy, Saint Nick, to entertain at my niece's dance recital (if you want to check out 2007 and 2008, then double-click those years).

The Green Room was abysmal. I've got to get a better agent for these gigs.

The spread also left something to be desired (actually, I'm pretty sure that these goodies were for some event earlier in the day... or week. Didn't taste too bad, though).

Showtime!

Oh, and there was dancing, too. In fact, Niece Allison (second from the right, I think), was in nine different numbers.

Allie's sister was cute as a button.

Rob and Dave's Excellent Adventure.

That's my oldest son, to the right, and my nephew, Rob, the taller fellow to the left. Rob took care of his cousin for the last few months. Put him up in Greenville while Davis looked for work. Davis'll be teaching in Korea soon, and he's moved out, but Davis lived with Rob since January. Rob is Davis' mom's sister's son. I'm divorced from Davis' mom, so what's Rob to me? Families are sometimes where you find them. Lots and lots of people in the last generation or two are divorced. So, what do you do with the in-laws after the nuclear unit is split? Former cousins, nieces and nephews you've loved for years, what are they? Seems like they're whatever we decide they are. My babymamma remarried years ago- and I'm engaged to a wonderful woman- but if you tell me that I'm not still an uncle to Rob, Shawn, Carrie and Garrett, I'll fight you.

Graduations, Toilets, and Uncle Jim's Crown.

Lady Di and I just returned from the Great Lakes State. As my brother (quoting Samuel L. Jackson's hitman character in "Pulp Fiction") would say, "it was a stone groove". I love seeing Diane's family. They are a big, Mid-Western, close-knit, Catholic crowd. Diane and her sibs' parents were a mix of Irish, German and French Canadian descent, and brothers and sisters, and their children, wear their heritage well.

My brother, the Amazing AndyMan, and I have cobbled together a nice family between our few remaining blood relatives and our "adopted families" (I'm looking at you, Baggetts). We've been to a couple of family reunions in our lives, and we enjoy getting together with each other and with Uncle Bob and Aunt Maggie and cousins Bill and John; but, really, we don't know anything about family get-togethers compared to the Hoover/Marentette clan! High school graduation party? For us, that meant a trip to Ben T. Davis Municipal Beach to see what was shaking. For Caitlin, Megan (and, next month, Kelly), graduation means scores of friends and relatives travelling hundreds- or even thousands- of miles to honor the conquering heroines. These gatherings don't just happen: providing food, lodging, and time for everyone to meet and greet requires lots of logistical work. Planning- and Providence- are required for all this stuff to work out.

Planning was much in evidence between the couple of soirees laid out for the weekend. There'd be a cook-out at Sue and Norb's on Friday. Sister Sue shopped and chopped and cooked and cleaned. Sue also wanted a the bathroom redone for the do. Norb worked hard (as Norb always does) to get it together. Old tiles were removed; new tiles were set. An old showerhead was retired; a new showerhead was installed. A new toilet- a new throne, as it were- was the center-piece of the renewed loo. Things were bought. Things were cleaned. The work of weeks and months was complete: The Espers were ready. But Murphy- he of the "anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, and at the worst possible time" rule- was in the house. Big time. Just hours before the cook-out, the toilet gurgled, burped, and generally caused an uproar. At seven a.m., the plumbing backed up. The guests were to arrive at four p.m. Norb prodded, poked, and snaked the lines from the basement to the roof (he even got me up there. Yikes!). The toilet un-bolted and removed, and the laundry room where the clean-out valve and drain were located was emptied and surveyed. He got it figured out, but neither of the two drain-snaking devices he had were up to the task. Ultimately, he called the big guns. Moto-rooter, or some such service, drove up at about one p.m., and yanked the offending item from the line: a wet-towelette. Sometime earlier, a baby's bottom or a bathroom sink shone just a bit brighter, but at a terrible cost. Still, the pooper-rooter, or whatever the service's name, had done its job. The clean-up then ensued. Floors were mopped; walls and appliances wiped. Norb improvised a drainage grate to replace the corroded one that didn't survive the operation, and the laundry drier put back into place. Toilet seal-wax was set, and the throne replaced and bolted back down. All of it done with about two minutes to spare before the guests began to arrive. The cook-out was a success, with most of the crowd none-the-wiser of the epic journey that immediately preceded the fete.

Now, on to Saturday...


The brothers and sisters (Sue and Norb and their kids, Eric, Jeff and Amy; Mark (all the way from Seattle with his children, Markie and Xochilt); Lady Di; and Greg (with his bride, Kathe, and their kids, Kelly and Mitchell), were there for Jenny and her beautiful twin graduates (Jenny and John's other daughter, Lauren, will be graduating next year). Sister Andrea had to appear by phone, but she'll be there in the flesh next month for Kelly's party. The remaining male member of the previous generation, Uncle Jim, came from Colorado to be there. As the sibs' oldest uncle, Jim would be the Patriarch. See? He even has a crown.

The party was a great success. There were lots of people, there was plenty of delicious food, and ample adult refreshments for the crowd. Jenny and John put together a wonderful party for their gals. And just look at the cakes!



Here's Uncle Jim taking a picture of the brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews (with a couple of other relatives sneaking in).

It was a lot of fun. Thanks, y'all!

Reflections on Turning Fifty.

I turned fifty a few days ago. After my old buddy Russ did it five months ago, I figured that this might happen to me. My fiance, the lovely Lady Di, bought me a super-duper chair, and put together an amazing party for me, too. My brother, the Amazing AndyMan, came up from Tampa, as did high school buddies Phil and Terrie. My oldest (non-relative) friend, Russ, and his girlfriend, and his mom (who, as I've mentioned not a few times in this space, is my "second mom"), Frandy, drove up from Panama City, FL. My running partner, Kevin, and his fiance made it, along with lots of friends from Church and out and about (I'll post more pictures on FaceBook, if you wanna look). An early rain burned off, and the weather was perfect. Lots of food, music, and camaraderie were made possible by the hard work and planning of my true love, Diane. Out of a slew of blessings for which I am grateful, Diane is my greatest.



I love you, Baby.

A Ministry of Cleaning Out Refrigerators.

Although the primary source of my distinctly non-subtle sense of humor was my wild and crazy dad, my mom (well, mine and AndyMan's mom) could be a pretty funny person, too. A few years after mom joined the Sisters of the Transfiguration, I went up to the Convent in Glendale, Ohio, to visit. She was taking her turn cleaning the kitchen, and opined to me and the remainder of those present that she had a special "ministry of cleaning out refrigerators". When the Apostle Paul talked about the special gifts doled out to the faithful, he may not have specifically mentioned a ministry of cleaning out refrigerators, but I chalk that up to the extensive lag time between his ministry and the invention of the refrigerator.

I've listed The Manor for sale, and it has been pointed out to me that a disgusting refrigerator, in the current economy, is not conducive to a quick real estate sale. My refrigerator qualified as disgusting, so I figured it was time to give it a bath.

So I did.

Hey, that's a good looking refrigerator!

Now I just gotta get some food.

Roadtrip: Michigan: Part III, Dearborn.

We visited Diane's old neighborhood. I asked her if she would write about it. This is her post.


7510 Neckel Street, Dearborn, MI.When my parents divorced in 1965 we moved from the suburbs of Chicago to my grandfather’s house where my mother grew up in the 1940s. What I remember about growing up occurred mainly in the town of Dearborn Michigan. My 5 brothers and sisters and I lived with my Mom and Grandpa Marentette. We were enrolled in St. Alphonsus School where my mother graduated in 1939. I remember it as a great way to grow up. The town was mostly Roman Catholic Western Europeans of German, Polish, Italian, and French Canadian descent. From our backyard you could see the school and church; St. Alphonsus was a large part of our daily life. The neighborhood kids went to school and church together and played “lot baseball” together in the summer and had snowball fights in the winter.


Fast forward to 2009 when David and I visited my old neighborhood and adjacent St. Alphonsus church and school. My brother Greg cautioned me against going to visit our old house because it was being rented and was in disrepair. I rarely have opportunity to visit my past and with David’s support I felt good about going.

We arrived at 7510 Neckel Street to find an Arabic woman on my old front porch with the door wide open.
David took this picture (Direct TV) of the past and present worlds of Dearborn, Michigan. The old Dearborn of the 60s, 70s, and 80s Western European Americans has now been replaced by the largest Arabic community in the United States.

We met Eddie who was suspicious of our nosing around my old haunts. Once he found out we were friend and not foe we had a great chat. Eddie is Lebanese and came to Michigan in the early 70’s. He shared with us that the neighborhood had changed with Iraqis and Yemenis moving 3 or more families into the neighborhood houses.


My first job was at the Golden Boy Donut shop, which was in this building- now an Arabic Restaurant.

The Overhang at St. Alphonsus School.I saw the construction at St. Al's as hope for the future: they wouldn't bother to renovate the Church, if they were planning to close it. The sad thing for me is that the population of Dearborn has changed so much that my old high school closed in 2003, with the grade school closing in 2005. Old friends from the neighborhood tell me that these days the church, which could hold hundreds of people, has only about 50 or so people for Sunday Mass. One thing in life we can be sure of is change.

Goodbye, Coach; Goodbye "Dad".

Paul Leo Baggett died yesterday in his hometown in Panama City, Florida. Leo was a football player, and a husband. He had three children, my best friend Russ, Sarah, and Anne, with his college sweetheart, Frandy. Leo was my pee wee league football coach when I was a lad growing up in Tampa, and it took me years to get used to calling him Leo. The Baggetts were my "second" family when I was growing up, and they provided a measure of normalcy and stability to me and my brother when things weren't going so great at home. It's difficult to imagine I could ever repay Leo for all the food he bought (and Frandy prepared) which I consumed over the years. Lots of nights while Frandy was feeding and listening to the neighborhood kids, Leo would fall asleep in front of the t.v. in the family room. Daughter Sarah would shake him when he'd start to snore. He'd scold us when we we acted up. Sometimes he didn't say much. It didn't matter. He was always there. You could count on it. Like me and so many other kids of "broken homes" that the Baggetts took care of, that meant a lot. I love you, Leo, and I'll miss you.