Beginning March 2nd, 2020 the Mailing Lists functionality on RootsWeb will be discontinued. Users will no longer be able to send outgoing emails or accept incoming emails. Additionally, administration tools will no longer be available to list administrators and mailing lists will be put into an archival state.
Administrators may save the emails in their list prior to March 2nd. After that, mailing list archives will remain available and searchable on RootsWeb
Page 1
[Cleaver] "Sunday Afternoon Rocking"
by List user
From: Jan <unicorn(a)sun-spot.com>
Ghost of a Chance (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)
I have been visited by the "Ghost of a Chance" more than a few times. And
perhaps someone reading this will have been visited by one by the end of
that reading. For I have a 166 year old secret to disclose, and I want
someone somewhere to meet the "Ghost of a Chance", who for you, has appeared.
The Ghost of a Chance, is exactly that, arriving unexpectedly, a tangible
glimpse of the past, a tangible wisp of something not quite possible that
simply, for whatever reason, IS.
It was the "Ghost of a Chance" that made possible a stone for my great
uncle in a National Cemetery, more than 75 years after his death in World
War I. Two illusive scraps of information I had to find in order to apply
for that honor for a long dead patriot whose body never returned from the
battlefield in France he died on. His identification number and his
birthday. The first I finally found in his wallet, on a listing of
personal possessions returned to the family. Finding the second I feared
to be a "ghost of a chance". He was born before government birth records
were kept, if there had ever been a family Bible no one knew of it, no one
still lived who knew that birth date. And the "Ghost of a Chance"
appeared. Going through a box of old papers belonging to my grandfather, a
tiny torn scrap of paper fell to the floor. So tiny, so nondescript, I
might not have even noticed it had fallen. But I did, and started to throw
it away. Then looked again. And on it, in my grandfather's handwriting,
was scribbled "Jud's birthday", underlined twice, and then the date. My
grandfather had been dead for over thirty years. A mere box of scraps had
been kept by my father, and passed to me on his death. I have no idea why
my grandfather wrote his long dead brother's birthday on a tiny scrap of
paper, or when. I have no idea if my father even realized he had gathered
a tiny scrap of paper with that birthdate when he piled old papers into a
box. I have even less idea how it managed to survive and wind up falling
to the floor of a house hundreds of miles away precisely when I needed
it. But I figured it was the "Ghost of a Chance" again.
Yes, I have been visited by the "Ghost of a Chance" many times in my
searches, but the most magnificent and dramatic visitation of all was not
for me at all, yet just as exciting. For someone, somewhere, that illusive
dream we all hope for and dream of has happened. Those descendants do not
know it yet, because I do not know who they are. But I am hanging on to
the "Ghost of the Chance" for them, so she does not get away
We all have the ancestor who seemingly was never born, never married, never
held a job, never appeared on a census list, never died, was never
buried. We have all dreamed that ancestor would suddenly and miraculously
"appear", in some long forgotten family Bible, on some ancient crumbling
bit of paper, somehow and some way make his or her long ago presence upon
this earth tangible. All of us who have ever searched the past have not
just one, but many such stumbling blocks. In our greatest dreams of all,
we think how wonderful it would be to find an actual diary, an actual
journal. Of course that is impossible (isn't it?), but perhaps somewhere,
in an old trunk, a dusty attic
And we keep hanging in there, hoping the
"Ghost of a Chance" will appear for us.
I hold the "Ghost of a Chance" tightly by the end of a wispy gown right
now. I am hanging on because I know that "Ghost of a Chance" is important
to someone somewhere. The "Ghost of a Chance" breezed into my life a few
weeks ago. She was 166 years old. I wish she had been my ghost, but alas,
she is mine only because for whatever reason she chose to come to me to
make herself known.
Somewhere out there, someone has an ancestress named Sarah B. Jackson. She
also called herself "Sally". She had a "Cousin Julia", an "Aunt Strong",
and a brother James. Sarah attended Goshen Female Academy in Goshen, New
York in 1835. Sarah wrote a journal that began in January of 1835, and
ended during her days as a schoolteacher in Babylon, New York later in the
summer. 166 years later, Sarah's journal resurfaced between the boards of
a very ancient house in Kentucky. After its discovery, it was simply
placed upon a shelf in a country home as a curiosity. By being in the right
place, at the right time, by meeting the right person under the right
circumstances, I was given the opportunity to transcribe that journal. It
has been returned to its owner, but photos and the transcription are
waiting for the descendent. There are no clues how that journal wound up in
Kentucky, how it survived so many years hidden away. There are no clues
what happened to Sarah, and only by following the clues of everyday life in
her journal was I able to finally place where she had written it and
substantiate that the events she spoke of actually happened. But for
someone somewhere, there is a treasure. The treasure every single one of
us who ever traced genealogy have dreamed of, longed for, and known,
realistically, was only the "Ghost of a Chance" and not realistic. Or is
it? Are you the descendent of Sarah B. Jackson? Your "Ghost of a Chance"
has become reality.
Hoping,
jan
Copyright ©2001janPhilpot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share as written without alterations...and in entirety.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 4 months
[Cleaver] Sunday Afternoon Rocking
by List user
From: jan <unicorn(a)sun-spot.com>
Comfort Things (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series)
"Hush little baby, don't say a word
" Such began the lullaby I sung to my
three children, now all grown up and off on lives of their own. I never
dreamed it meant so much until my daughter, all grown up and a beautiful
young woman, one day lay her head against my shoulder and said softly,
"Sing that song to me."
"What song?", I asked, puzzled.
"The one about the mockingbird and the billy goat and the diamond ring."
"OHHH
that song!"
And so I held the grown woman's head and crooned the long ago lullaby,
gently rocking back and forth as I did so. For a space of time, I was
imagining the chubby little girl with dark auburn curls I used to hold in
my arms, and perhaps she was imagining being one.
"Thank you," she said when I had finished, and raised up and kissed me on
the cheek, then went on about her grown up life.
I am no singer. I don't pretend to be a singer There is no talent I
would rather possess, but it simply was not written in the stars. The rich
singing voices and rhythmic dancing feet of my mother's people did not come
to me. I took after my father's people. I have two left feet and a voice
like a hoarse bullfrog. I know the latter is true because that is what a
choir director once told me, and I subsequently took him at his word and
gave of my talents in other departments. But "Hush little baby" must not
be about my singing ability at all. Must be about something else. Comfort
sound, like gravy is comfort food.
I go on about my grown up life every day, and most times I do pretty
well. But now and then, like my daughter, I need a few comfort
sounds. The squeaky rhythmic sound of a porch swing on its hinges does
that for me, and I imagine it might be because my mama used to tie my small
self and a pillow to one on my Pa's front porch and let it gently rock me
to sleep. Whippoorwills and crickets do that for me, and that is probably
because I associate that with the country nights "down home" as a
child "Amazing Grace" does that for me, and that is probably because I
associate it with a country church and the peace of a Sunday morning.
Comfort things. If I am feeling badly, my husband knows exactly what meal
I need, regardless of the time of day. Fried eggs and biscuits, gravy and
grits, bacon. He proceeds to the kitchen. Works the trick every time. I
see the sunny plate and think of a long ago kitchen with pleasant smells
and happy laughter, the warmth of an iron stove.
Comfort things. A quilt wrapped around tight on a blustery day, a cup of
hot chocolate, a soft feather pillow, a hike down a beaten trail under a
canopy of green trees and patches of blue, digging in the rich soil of
springtime, a dozen and more things that make one feel better, and when we
stop to think on it we can figure out why each item is in our list of home
remedies for healing a broken spirit.
Once upon a time, a professor gave a class a very strange, and most wise,
assignment. We were to choose one night and call it "Me Evening". On that
evening we were to plan only comforting things, things that made us "feel
good", things that left us fulfilled and happy. Odd, my list of
choices. Or perhaps not. Every single one of them could be traced to a
time in my life when I felt very secure and very comforted. Now is it any
wonder that supper that night was fried eggs and biscuits, gravy and grits,
bacon? Or that I spent a large part of the evening gently rocking back and
forth in a porch swing?
The day my daughter asked me to sing "that song", she had not told me of
any troubles. But I suspect, for just a space of time, my adult daughter
used that melody in a most wise manner. To gird herself for a coming day,
to face a tomorrow armed with the comfort of the past. It is no wonder that
I continue the tradition established by a long ago and most wise
professor. Now and then I have a "Me Evening" (I prefer to call it
"Comfort Night") and encourage those around me to do the same. It is a way
to feel enveloped by love and security, a way to celebrate the past that
laid the foundations for our "comfort things", a way to face the coming day
with a fresh outlook. Have a "Me Evening", folks. Feel comforted with
the roots that taught you how to be comforted, and offer it to yourself as
sustenance that you can better make comforting roots of your tomorrows.
Just a thought,
jan
Copyright ©2001janPhilpot
And because I know some of you will ask, here is the lullaby:
Hush little baby, don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.
And if that mockingbird don't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.
And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass.
And if that looking glass gets broke,
Mama's gonna buy you a billy goat.
And if that billy goat runs away,
Mama's gonna sing this another day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be
shared...simply share as written without alterations...and in entirety.
Thanks, jan)
Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday
Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per
week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to
Sundayrocking-subscribe(a)topica.com
Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to
unicorn(a)sun-spot.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 years, 4 months
Page 1
Next Page