From 1850
"Fire off a shotgun under a bloated cow such that the animal makes such a desperate spring that the problem in the stomach may out the obstruction and end the problem at once".
That's from a mid-19th century family diary that survived the dismantling of my family's life after my father's death. When my mother died a combination of his obsessive orderliness and his resentent of anything not related to him led to a purge of all of my mother's stored cards and letters of maybe 60 years(impossible for me to believe at the time and still) -- just in the trash before I could get there after her death. My father had some great qualities of resiliance and a love of life. He certainly loved me in the best way that he could, given his background. It's impossible to explain here, as it may be for my children to eventually explain me, not in the same mode I hope.
The quote above is from a "Borden" diary from the mid 1800's that has remedies for everything, books to read, sayings to live by, it's fascinating. These folks ran a barrel making company for apples growers and looked like a fairly poor lot, but were more literate than any average American today. Sixteen days before his death and being called by medical professional friend Renee, doctors, and others, I flew down immediately to be with my father for his last 16 days. He had been in and out of the hospital repeatedly over the past year and always rebounded in an amazing way, with an amazing interest in going out to eat. This finally was coming to an end. He was not in much pain at all. He was 91 and his body just wore out.
When in the hospital under multiple drug regimens, run by so-called doctors called hospitalists, he indadvertantly told me many things that I suspected but did not know for sure, mainly things that he did to my mother when he lost his temper when she misplaced things during her early stage Alzheimers. That was sad to hear, but she had more or less already told me what she was going through. As much as I admire my father and miss my father, I have a little problem with some of the final months of my mother's life that will not really ever be reconciled.
The quote above is from a diary that survived Delta. When returning from Danville I had to pack several bags and my carry-on was full of essential estate and financial documents. In 35 years of domestic and international travel for mostly business and some for vacations I had never lost a bag, but this was the time. A bag filled with photographs of most of my family's life was lost or stolen, and after 8 months of haggling Delta rewarded me with $750 for the few tangible items in the bag, sweater, jacket, etc. There was no amount of money that could have compensated this individual without siblings for the loss of all pictures of my childhood, all pictures of my parents except ones that I already had from their earliest days and their aging days.
One major discovery was immediately lost. That was the photos of my father's shot down B-17 as a Flying Tiger in 1942. He survived obviously, but this was always a blank spot in his comments, WWII, in general, of anything he talked about. I found the photographs and a long time friend of my father's named Bobby showed up at his memorial service and talked about it. I never knew except maybe a little on the edges. Those photos disappeared as well, courtesy of Delta.
I've just written this same post in a different way on Facebook, but here you may expect to see random diary posts from time to time, just maybe titled 1850.
That's from a mid-19th century family diary that survived the dismantling of my family's life after my father's death. When my mother died a combination of his obsessive orderliness and his resentent of anything not related to him led to a purge of all of my mother's stored cards and letters of maybe 60 years(impossible for me to believe at the time and still) -- just in the trash before I could get there after her death. My father had some great qualities of resiliance and a love of life. He certainly loved me in the best way that he could, given his background. It's impossible to explain here, as it may be for my children to eventually explain me, not in the same mode I hope.
The quote above is from a "Borden" diary from the mid 1800's that has remedies for everything, books to read, sayings to live by, it's fascinating. These folks ran a barrel making company for apples growers and looked like a fairly poor lot, but were more literate than any average American today. Sixteen days before his death and being called by medical professional friend Renee, doctors, and others, I flew down immediately to be with my father for his last 16 days. He had been in and out of the hospital repeatedly over the past year and always rebounded in an amazing way, with an amazing interest in going out to eat. This finally was coming to an end. He was not in much pain at all. He was 91 and his body just wore out.
When in the hospital under multiple drug regimens, run by so-called doctors called hospitalists, he indadvertantly told me many things that I suspected but did not know for sure, mainly things that he did to my mother when he lost his temper when she misplaced things during her early stage Alzheimers. That was sad to hear, but she had more or less already told me what she was going through. As much as I admire my father and miss my father, I have a little problem with some of the final months of my mother's life that will not really ever be reconciled.
The quote above is from a diary that survived Delta. When returning from Danville I had to pack several bags and my carry-on was full of essential estate and financial documents. In 35 years of domestic and international travel for mostly business and some for vacations I had never lost a bag, but this was the time. A bag filled with photographs of most of my family's life was lost or stolen, and after 8 months of haggling Delta rewarded me with $750 for the few tangible items in the bag, sweater, jacket, etc. There was no amount of money that could have compensated this individual without siblings for the loss of all pictures of my childhood, all pictures of my parents except ones that I already had from their earliest days and their aging days.
One major discovery was immediately lost. That was the photos of my father's shot down B-17 as a Flying Tiger in 1942. He survived obviously, but this was always a blank spot in his comments, WWII, in general, of anything he talked about. I found the photographs and a long time friend of my father's named Bobby showed up at his memorial service and talked about it. I never knew except maybe a little on the edges. Those photos disappeared as well, courtesy of Delta.
I've just written this same post in a different way on Facebook, but here you may expect to see random diary posts from time to time, just maybe titled 1850.
posted by John Borden at 8:45 PM
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