A Holiday Shopping Open House
View more documents from Jill Tewsley.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Bah Humbug!
Before I begin, let me establish that I fully understand the true meaning of Christmas. I do. But, that being said, I also love everything about Christmas (commercial and otherwise).
I love presents. I love buying them. I love wrapping them. I love giving them. And, I love getting them. I love baking cookies and making candy. I love driving at night to look at lights (the beautiful and the tacky). I love decorating the tree. I love singing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs when I think nobody is listening.
This year, something is different. I seem to be lacking any holiday spirit.
Today I decorated the Christmas tree while carols were playing on XM radio. Normally, I gently unwrap the ornaments, excited to see what is behind the paper that kept them safe for the past year. Once unwrapped, I carefully examine the tree to locate the perfect position for each ornament. Today, I ripped the paper from each ornament and hung those suckers as quickly as possible. I even found myself annoyed by the Christmas music that I had playing in the background and switched the station to a channel playing 80's music. That's not all! Typically, once I begin the decorating process I don't stop until everything is in place. When I finished with the tree today, I shoved the boxes with the remaining decorations in the corner. The rest could wait for another day. I have been suffering from a bit of a headache today. My husband and I met up with some old classmates of mine and their spouses last evening. The wine and conversation were flowing. I have a hard time believing, however, that a slight hangover could dampen my holiday spirit.
Perhaps it has to do with the fact that this has been a stressful year. I became unemployed in June (for the second time in 12 months). After 15 years working at a job I loved, and at which I was successful, the company for which I worked was struggling. I was one of nearly 300 employees laid off in June of 2008. I went to work for another organization six months later. It was the wrong fit from the get go (for them and for me). So, in June of 2009 I once again found myself unemployed. The economy sucks right now. No denying that. And the job market in Michigan is not so hot either. I generally spend a lot of freaking money at Christmas. Not this year. So, maybe that has dampened my spirit a bit. (Remember, as previously established, I DO understand the real the meaning of Christmas).
I anticipated that this might be a problem. I had a plan. I would make a lot of gifts. I reassured myself that it would be fun, “You’re not working now, Jill. You have extra time". Shortly after having that conversation with myself, we all got sick. Maybe it was the swine flu. Maybe not. It doesn't really matter. The "influenza-like" illness pretty much wiped my family out of commission for a month. Suddenly, Christmas is just four weeks away and the gifts I had planned to make are still in the planning stages. So maybe that has got me down a bit.
Thanksgiving was nice. Our family was together. We hung out with friends. We ate leftovers. But, Thanksgiving is over and Christmas is on the way. Normally, I would be oozing with excitement. This year I find myself wanting to stand in the way of the rapidly approaching holiday. I want to shout, "Stay the hell away! I am not ready for you! I need more time! I need a job! I want more money!" Christmas isn't scared of me. It is coming anyway. I need to find my holiday spirit.
Really, what's my problem? So I won't be able to spend as much money. That's not so bad. So the kids won't get as many things. They get way too much stuff anyway. So there won't be as many gifts to open. Big deal. That is not what Christmas is all about anyway. Get over it, Jill! Find a little cheer. Celebrate the season. Start belting out the carols and enjoy it, dammit! Establish new (cost-effective) traditions. Give all of the toys that the kids got for Christmas last year (and don't play with) to charity. 
I know. I know. I KNOW! And, I don't care. Things are going to be different this year. Old traditions will go undone. There won't be as much giving. All of this makes me want to scream, "Bah Humbug!"Maybe I really don't understand the true meaning of Christmas. Or maybe I do, but I just don't care because I really enjoy the giving gifts thing. It really doesn't matter because Christmas is coming and I can't stop it. I can't even slow it down a little.
So, tonight I will close my eyes and rest. And tomorrow, I will hopefully wake up headache free and find myself in the mood to sing Christmas carols. If not, I may need a good swift kick in the you know what.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Abraham Lincoln: A Biography
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
At the age of eight, Maxine has had a love affair with Lincoln that dates as far back as kindergarten. This afternoon, when I thought Maxine was working on her homework, she was actually drafting a report on Lincoln as a surprise for her father. The handwritten report also contained several illustrations. She crafted this report from memory. Her biography on Abraham Lincoln follows, exactly as written.
A Biography
By Maxine Tewsley
Report on Abraham Lincoln
Abraham Lincoln was born in Kuntuky on February 12, 1809. He had a mom a sister and a dad. As he grew he learned how to read and it was his favorite thing to do by the fireplace. His sister Sarah loved to make Abe giggle. As the years passed by Abe began to become a man.
Abe had many jobs and his first one was store clerk. Then his careere changed. He became a husband, father, a lawer. Years past he grew his boys grew and his wife grew and espeshily his mind grew.
Now Abe was running to be presidnt of the United States of America, and he won! Abe had to be Presidnt during the Cilv war and he hated slavery so he put a stop to it. Many people from the South did not like Lincoln for stopping slavery.
Espshly John Wills Booth he did not like Lincoln 1 single bit. Abe and his family went to a play called My American Cousin and John Wills Booth knew it. Erly the day that Abe was going to be there John Wills Booth snuck in with a small hand gun and hid. When Lincoln sat down and he had no idea but he was in for a little surprise right in the middle John Wills Booth jumped out and shot Lincoln in the back of the head and then jumped over the stage and broke his ankle.
Nobody knowed where and how John Wills Booth hid until he was found in a barn fire and killed. Now memories of Lincoln float through our country and we remember him and his history.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Breakfast Table History
I like history.
Not the history that I was taught in grade school. Not even the history that I was taught in college. That history all seemed so boring. It didn't jump off of the pages of the circa 1970 text book and come to life. It was not relevant or important to who I was, whom I might become. It was education by rote.
There was one exception. In middle school my fellow classmates and I were presented a social studies course on local history. We learned about Chief Cobmoosa, a steamboat named Paragon, and a french fur-trader by the name of Daniel Marsac. I began to realize that history was also about me, not just about things that existed before my time and beyond my grasp. History was no longer flat and lifeless. It was important and vibrant. It gave me dimension.
History was also part of my family life, especially on Sunday mornings. Church services were not part of our weekly ritual. But there was a ritual to Sunday. On that day of the week, history came to life at the breakfast table. My father would tell stories about growing up in a small town during World War II, his experiences in the Marine Corp., attending a one room school, and working on the family farm. Each week would bring a new story about an event or experience that came before me. Stories that were an important part of my history. I discovered things about my parents that might have otherwise been lost. And, I became acquainted with family that I never met:
Michael was awarded the Air Medal with three Oak Leaf Clusters and the Distinguished Flying Cross. He currently resides in Jacksonville, Florida with his wife Pauline.
George Kasper Hoover was drafted into service in 1942, at the age of 34. He spent seven months in North Africa, participating in the Tunisian and Algeria-French Moroccan campaigns. George received the Bronze Star for his actions in the Tunisian campaign:
George Kasper Hoover died on July 12, 1988 at the age of 80.
John Andrew Hoover and Jacob Vincent Hoover also served during WWII, but never saw active duty.
My grandfather, Leo Augustine Hoover, died in 1953, at the age of 37. He was younger than I am now. I have read the newspaper articles that tell the story of his "tragic death.
It seems ironic that my grandfather would die at such as young age and that his brothers would survive WWII. But that's history and such is life.
Everywhere, all around me is history. The person driving too slow on the freeway. The cranky cashier at the grocery store. The old lady at the library who always wants to talk a little too long. My Great Aunts and Uncles. They are all history.
I want my children to know who they are. I want them to know who came before them. I will tell them stories at the breakfast table.
I like history.
Not the history that I was taught in grade school. Not even the history that I was taught in college. That history all seemed so boring. It didn't jump off of the pages of the circa 1970 text book and come to life. It was not relevant or important to who I was, whom I might become. It was education by rote.
One plus one equals twoZZZZZZZZZZ...Boring!
I before E except after C
No taxation without representation
There was one exception. In middle school my fellow classmates and I were presented a social studies course on local history. We learned about Chief Cobmoosa, a steamboat named Paragon, and a french fur-trader by the name of Daniel Marsac. I began to realize that history was also about me, not just about things that existed before my time and beyond my grasp. History was no longer flat and lifeless. It was important and vibrant. It gave me dimension.
History was also part of my family life, especially on Sunday mornings. Church services were not part of our weekly ritual. But there was a ritual to Sunday. On that day of the week, history came to life at the breakfast table. My father would tell stories about growing up in a small town during World War II, his experiences in the Marine Corp., attending a one room school, and working on the family farm. Each week would bring a new story about an event or experience that came before me. Stories that were an important part of my history. I discovered things about my parents that might have otherwise been lost. And, I became acquainted with family that I never met:
My great grandmother, Edna Weitz, who caught the attention of my great grandfather, Henry Alden Johnson, as she rode her bicycle (the kind with the big wheel in front) past his farm on her way to teach school.
My Great Uncle Morse (Henry's son), who once tried to pass a truck while riding his bicycle. He survived the attempt, but his arm was broken in the process.
A distant cousin, who in the 1800's, killed her children and herself. Her husband discovered the bodies upon his return from work.
But, despite the stories my parents told, there were two individuals that felt lost to me. My paternal grandmother, Rosetta Boughner Johnson, ran off with another man in the early 1940's, leaving behind my father, my uncle and my grandfather. And my maternal grandfather, Leo Augustine Hoover, who died when my mother was in the eighth grade.
I did not want to learn about these people through stories. I wanted my grandfather to be living and breathing. And, I wanted to know if my grandmother was still alive, where she was, and if she ever wondered about the family she left behind. I would eventually get answers to some the questions I had about my grandmother, but that is another blog for another time.
My grandfather came from a large family. He was one of ten siblings. Nine boys and one girl. At family reunions I would watch my grandfather's siblings interact with their grandchildren and children. I was often envious of my cousins. They knew their grandparents. I wanted to know mine. I wanted to know how he smelled. I wanted to know what his voice sounded like. I wanted to know if his eyes really twinkled when he smiled, like my mother told me. Other times, I was simply curious. Which of his siblings was he most like? And despite my curiosity, it wasn't until I was an adult that I learned the unique stories of George, Henry, Andrew, Ernie, Ollie, Gerald, Michael, Jacob and Kate. I was so concerned with what was not, that I did not take the time to get acquainted with what was.
My Great Uncle, Michael, has spent countless hours compiling his family history. Like the stories my dad used to tell at the breakfast table, the stories and information that my Uncle Mike has compiled help me to understand more about who I am. They also helped me to discover more about the grandfather I never knew, and the family from which he came.
Five of my grandfather's brothers (Henry, Michael, George, Andy and Jacob) were in the service during World War II.
Henry John Hoover was working at the Fisher Body Plant in Pontiac, Michigan when the United States entered WWII. He enlisted in the Navy just prior to being drafted.
On June 5, 1944, Henry spent the night aboard a ship in the English Channel, arriving at Omaha Beach the next morning, as the first D-Day landings were getting underway. That evening, his regiment was taken closer inland and placed upon a ship that "had been sunk for a breakwater." When the sunken freighter came under fire, the LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) that had transported the regiment to their position cut free of the freighter leaving Henry and 114 other men behind. The Coast Guard eventually arrived, taking the men back to sea. Henry then volunteered to go ashore, staying in France until August of 1944. He was later sent to Okinawa, where he remained until the end of the war.
Henry died on March 26, 1995, one month shy of his 85th birthday.
Michael Clarence Hoover volunteered for service in March of 1941. He served in the Army, training to become a pilot. His first ride in an airplane was also his first training flight. Michael was eventually assigned to the 466th Bomb Group, where he piloted a B-24. The 466th flew its' first combat mission, bombing Berlin, Germany, on March 22, 1944, for which the 466th received an official commendation from General James H. Doolittle. Michael flew a total of 32 combat missions over France, Belgium, Holland and Germany. Including missions on June 5th, 6th and 7th, to help the Allied Forces on D-Day. On July 23, 1944 the 466th flew their last mission at the battle of Saint Lo in France.
I did not want to learn about these people through stories. I wanted my grandfather to be living and breathing. And, I wanted to know if my grandmother was still alive, where she was, and if she ever wondered about the family she left behind. I would eventually get answers to some the questions I had about my grandmother, but that is another blog for another time.
My grandfather came from a large family. He was one of ten siblings. Nine boys and one girl. At family reunions I would watch my grandfather's siblings interact with their grandchildren and children. I was often envious of my cousins. They knew their grandparents. I wanted to know mine. I wanted to know how he smelled. I wanted to know what his voice sounded like. I wanted to know if his eyes really twinkled when he smiled, like my mother told me. Other times, I was simply curious. Which of his siblings was he most like? And despite my curiosity, it wasn't until I was an adult that I learned the unique stories of George, Henry, Andrew, Ernie, Ollie, Gerald, Michael, Jacob and Kate. I was so concerned with what was not, that I did not take the time to get acquainted with what was.My Great Uncle, Michael, has spent countless hours compiling his family history. Like the stories my dad used to tell at the breakfast table, the stories and information that my Uncle Mike has compiled help me to understand more about who I am. They also helped me to discover more about the grandfather I never knew, and the family from which he came.
Five of my grandfather's brothers (Henry, Michael, George, Andy and Jacob) were in the service during World War II.
Henry John Hoover was working at the Fisher Body Plant in Pontiac, Michigan when the United States entered WWII. He enlisted in the Navy just prior to being drafted.
On June 5, 1944, Henry spent the night aboard a ship in the English Channel, arriving at Omaha Beach the next morning, as the first D-Day landings were getting underway. That evening, his regiment was taken closer inland and placed upon a ship that "had been sunk for a breakwater." When the sunken freighter came under fire, the LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) that had transported the regiment to their position cut free of the freighter leaving Henry and 114 other men behind. The Coast Guard eventually arrived, taking the men back to sea. Henry then volunteered to go ashore, staying in France until August of 1944. He was later sent to Okinawa, where he remained until the end of the war.
Henry died on March 26, 1995, one month shy of his 85th birthday.
Michael Clarence Hoover volunteered for service in March of 1941. He served in the Army, training to become a pilot. His first ride in an airplane was also his first training flight. Michael was eventually assigned to the 466th Bomb Group, where he piloted a B-24. The 466th flew its' first combat mission, bombing Berlin, Germany, on March 22, 1944, for which the 466th received an official commendation from General James H. Doolittle. Michael flew a total of 32 combat missions over France, Belgium, Holland and Germany. Including missions on June 5th, 6th and 7th, to help the Allied Forces on D-Day. On July 23, 1944 the 466th flew their last mission at the battle of Saint Lo in France. Michael was awarded the Air Medal with three Oak Leaf Clusters and the Distinguished Flying Cross. He currently resides in Jacksonville, Florida with his wife Pauline.
George Kasper Hoover was drafted into service in 1942, at the age of 34. He spent seven months in North Africa, participating in the Tunisian and Algeria-French Moroccan campaigns. George received the Bronze Star for his actions in the Tunisian campaign: "...On January 31, 1943, Private Hoover voluntarily manned an antitank gun and, although subjected to heavy fire, succeeded in destroying the hostile emplacment. Private Hoover's heroic initiative was instrumental in the capture of important objectives."In July of 1943, George was in Gela, Sicily when, for four days, his regiment was heavily engaged. He and the other members of his regiment received Presidential Unit Citations:
"The regiment pushed inland, encountering intense enemy artillery, tank and machine gun fire. Lacking armored support, this battalion repulsed a savage enemy attack with three 37-mm guns, a few rocket guns and small arms. When enemy tanks overran the battalion's position...the men stood fast and fought gallantly and furiously at close range destroying and routing enemy tanks with rocket gun fire...Distinguished bravery and Spartan efforts enabled this organization to repel the attacking forces. When its' position was cut in two and the battalion commander was wounded and evacuated, the men fought heroically and made important advances...after a bitter engagement meted out a decisive defeat to the enemy."On June 6, 1944, George and his regiment were among the first to storm the beaches at Normandy. He also participated in campaigns in North France, Rhineland and Central Europe. His decorations and citations include: Bronze Star Medal, Distinguished Unit Badge with one ribbon, Bronze Oak Leaf Cluster, Good Conduct Ribbon, European-African Middle Eastern Theater Ribbon with one Silver Star and two Bronze Battle Stars, and five Overseas Service Ribbons.
George Kasper Hoover died on July 12, 1988 at the age of 80.
John Andrew Hoover and Jacob Vincent Hoover also served during WWII, but never saw active duty.
My grandfather, Leo Augustine Hoover, died in 1953, at the age of 37. He was younger than I am now. I have read the newspaper articles that tell the story of his "tragic death.
"The father of four school-age daughters was dead on arrival at Butterworth Hospital Tuesday morning after coming in contact with a 6,900 volt power line. The accident occurred while Hoover and other employees of the municipal light plant were installing a new transformer."
Everywhere, all around me is history. The person driving too slow on the freeway. The cranky cashier at the grocery store. The old lady at the library who always wants to talk a little too long. My Great Aunts and Uncles. They are all history.
I want my children to know who they are. I want them to know who came before them. I will tell them stories at the breakfast table.
I like history.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
A Fish by Any Other Name
Grandma Tewsley gave Alden a fish for his fourth birthday. His name is Bobby Flippy. We have not discussed the fact that Bobby Flippy might be female with Alden. I figured Bobby could be short for Roberta so there was nothing to worry about.
I spent the first couple of weeks worrying about Bobby Flippy the way I worried about my newborns in their first few months of life. Is he breathing? Is he floating on the top of the water because he is dead? Or, is he just looking for some food? So far, Bobby Flippy is thriving.
Bobby Flippy is quite pretty. Lovely shades of blue. But he is a Beta fish. We were told that he needs to live alone because Beta fish eat other fish. He is pretty - but evidently not all that nice.
Because he lives alone, and might be lonely, Alden thought Bobby Flippy needed a friend. A plastic pink fish (one with a spring and suction cup that jumps into the air if you press it down) is now neatly positioned outside Bobby Flippy's tank. Every now and then Bobby Flippy swims past. Alden thinks he is happy to have a friend. I think Bobby Flippy is pissed that the pink plastic fish is beyond his reach.
Bobby Flippy is Alden's first pet. Alden is destined for a childhood of non-cuddly pets, because things with fur make me sneeze (a lot!). He will have to have pets like fish and turtles. No snakes. They make me sneeze too. This reality makes me sad. I love dogs.
My parents took my brother and I to the humane society to get a puppy when I was in the 4th grade. (I didn't develop a dog allergy until I was an adult). We came home with a 2-year old collie named Kelly. We didn't pick the name Kelly. She came with that name. We could never quite convince my cousin Kelly of that fact.
Kelly (the dog, not the cousin) loved to go for rides in the car. She also loved to attend local little league games. It was not so much the game that she liked, but the attention she got while she was there. Everyone would scratch her ears, tell her how pretty she was, or comment that she looked like Lassie. After the game she would prance home with an inflated ego and a happy heart.
My brother and I also had rabbits. My rabbit's name was Snowshoe. Feminine. Pretty. Delicate. My brother named his rabbit Buck. We didn't keep up our end of the bargain in caring for Buck and Snowshoe. My father arranged for a nice man to take "care" of our rabbits. Then, I thought they were going to live on his farm. Now, I am pretty certain that Buck and Snowshoe became rabbit stew.
When I was in college, my roommate and I were stumbling home from an evening out when we found a lost dog. A little solid black fur ball. We snuck him into the dorm. The next day I begged my parents to take the dog in. They agreed to take him until we found the owner. My dad, who has a quirky sense of humor, named the dog Spot. We never did find Spot's owner. My dad arranged for a man to take "care" of Spot. Unlike Buck and Snowshoe, Spot went to a good home.
Like Alden, I too had a fish. I only remember one thing about my fish. I spilled water from his bowl onto my mother's coffee table. I didn't do a good job of cleaning up the mess. Long after my fish died, the water ring remained on the coffee table. I don't remember his name. A name is important. Kelly, Buck, Snowshoe, Spot and my old fish What's His Name. I am writing this Blog so Alden will always remember that his fish (his first pet) was named Bobby Flippy.
I spent the first couple of weeks worrying about Bobby Flippy the way I worried about my newborns in their first few months of life. Is he breathing? Is he floating on the top of the water because he is dead? Or, is he just looking for some food? So far, Bobby Flippy is thriving.
Bobby Flippy is quite pretty. Lovely shades of blue. But he is a Beta fish. We were told that he needs to live alone because Beta fish eat other fish. He is pretty - but evidently not all that nice.
Because he lives alone, and might be lonely, Alden thought Bobby Flippy needed a friend. A plastic pink fish (one with a spring and suction cup that jumps into the air if you press it down) is now neatly positioned outside Bobby Flippy's tank. Every now and then Bobby Flippy swims past. Alden thinks he is happy to have a friend. I think Bobby Flippy is pissed that the pink plastic fish is beyond his reach.
Bobby Flippy is Alden's first pet. Alden is destined for a childhood of non-cuddly pets, because things with fur make me sneeze (a lot!). He will have to have pets like fish and turtles. No snakes. They make me sneeze too. This reality makes me sad. I love dogs.
My parents took my brother and I to the humane society to get a puppy when I was in the 4th grade. (I didn't develop a dog allergy until I was an adult). We came home with a 2-year old collie named Kelly. We didn't pick the name Kelly. She came with that name. We could never quite convince my cousin Kelly of that fact.
Kelly (the dog, not the cousin) loved to go for rides in the car. She also loved to attend local little league games. It was not so much the game that she liked, but the attention she got while she was there. Everyone would scratch her ears, tell her how pretty she was, or comment that she looked like Lassie. After the game she would prance home with an inflated ego and a happy heart.
My brother and I also had rabbits. My rabbit's name was Snowshoe. Feminine. Pretty. Delicate. My brother named his rabbit Buck. We didn't keep up our end of the bargain in caring for Buck and Snowshoe. My father arranged for a nice man to take "care" of our rabbits. Then, I thought they were going to live on his farm. Now, I am pretty certain that Buck and Snowshoe became rabbit stew.
When I was in college, my roommate and I were stumbling home from an evening out when we found a lost dog. A little solid black fur ball. We snuck him into the dorm. The next day I begged my parents to take the dog in. They agreed to take him until we found the owner. My dad, who has a quirky sense of humor, named the dog Spot. We never did find Spot's owner. My dad arranged for a man to take "care" of Spot. Unlike Buck and Snowshoe, Spot went to a good home.
Like Alden, I too had a fish. I only remember one thing about my fish. I spilled water from his bowl onto my mother's coffee table. I didn't do a good job of cleaning up the mess. Long after my fish died, the water ring remained on the coffee table. I don't remember his name. A name is important. Kelly, Buck, Snowshoe, Spot and my old fish What's His Name. I am writing this Blog so Alden will always remember that his fish (his first pet) was named Bobby Flippy.
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