Stride

First, I notice

the easy stride. 

You move mainstream.

Two long steps for each of mine.

I think of the time

you wander to Birmingham

for that first punk album―

coins in your pocket

like the silver your grandfather earned,

walking nineteen miles

straight up the middle of Yell

to fiddle for a wedding.

Those boyish endeavors bring you luck,

make your heart beat like a drum―

ancestral rhythms, word of mouth,

a fine-tuned ear.

You offer me your arm,

my feet barely touch the ground.

We dance a simple reel of lamp-posts,

paving stones, letterboxes―

speaking of―we stop the incessant writing,
to walk what's left of our wits.

tk March 2015

*photo: Old Bank Street, Manchester, UK by R.A.D. Stainforth

A most lovely read by R.A.D. ...

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Inked

Bows and arrows rise

in blue-painted memory,

whisper secrets in a language

that no longer exists.

I am compelled to tattoo

Pictish letters on my skin,

preserve the modern heir

of a distant arsenal.

Midnight ink voices

another century,

another continent;

marks my rite of passage.

It tells the story of us:

connections and parallels

in endless equinox―

a barcode to identify me as yours.

tk/March 2014




R.A.D. Stainforth considers a tattoo... 

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the number of dead people is increasing

Isn’t it so weird how the number of dead people is increasing even though the earth stays the same size, so that one day there isn’t going to be room to bury anyone anymore? For my ninth birthday last year, Grandma gave me a subscription to National Geographic, which she calls “the National Geographic”. She also gave me a white blazer, because I only wear white clothes, and it’s too big to wear so it will last me a long time. She also gave me Grandpa’s camera, which I loved for two reasons. I asked why he didn’t take it with him when he left her. 

my paternal great-grandfather, Glenn Hanna
with his portable bellows camera, circa 1910

She said, “Maybe he wanted you to have it.” 

I said, “But I was negative-thirty years old.” 

She said, “Still.” 


Anyway, the fascinating thing was that I read in National Geographic that there are more people alive now than have died in all of human history. In other words, if everyone wanted to play Hamlet at once, they couldn’t, because there aren’t enough skulls. 

― Jonathan Safran Foer

Speaking of dead people, photography runs rampant in my DNA. All my paternal grandfathers were photographers, starting with Joseph Lorenzo Dow Hanna in the 1850s, when photography was a new fangled art. Friday, on my routine Goodwill stop, I spotted this lovely old Kodak accordion camera, a smaller version of the one my great-grandfather Glenn Hanna used, back in 1910. It stirred that crazy photographic gene and I had to bring it home with me. All the grandpas nodded in approval.

image:  Kodak folding accordion camera, my latest Gee-Dub find

destination

My walls are covered

in cave writings

transferable graffiti

between generations

passed between

number one daughters

like passwords

in the air at the first snow

tribal smudges bruise

my Achilles' heel

to scrape squeegee clean

or saddle-up and ride

Tess Kincaid

August, 2011 

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for reading this piece.  Check out his excellent blog, Black Dogs.


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tradition

This is one of my traditional seasonal favorites. I only make this one between October and December. It doesn't feel right eating it in any other time of year. I'm sure the reason I love this rich nuttiness so much, is because it makes my DNA tingle. Yadda-yadda, you say. What doesn't make my DNA tingle? The pecan has been used in our cooking since the Colonists met the Native Americans.  Not only was my maternal great-great grandmother was full blood Cherokee, but my paternal ancestors had, and their descendants still own, a pecan orchard on the Gulf Coast.

Bourbon Pecan Pie

3/4 cup sugar
1 1/2 cups dark corn syrup
1/2 tsp salt
1 1/2 tsp four
3 large eggs
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
2 Tbsp bourbon
1 1/2 Tbsp melted butter
1 3/4 cups pecans

Roll out your favorite pie crust and fill a 9 inch pie pan, crimping the edges.

Combine sugar, syrup, salt, flour, and eggs and mix on medium speed until well blended.  Stir in remaining ingredients and pour into shell.   Bake 350 for one hour and 15 minutes, or until toothpick tester comes clean.

deep dna

Those of you who read this blog, know I am always talking some particular thing that makes my DNA "tingle". Several of my readers have mentioned the concept of "Deep DNA". I've read a bit about the notion and am totally fascinated. Deep DNA is the theory that not only does our DNA helix determine our physical characteristics, IQ, aptitudes, and emotional traits, but possibly some of our ancestor's memories, as well.

There are portions of the DNA genome sequence for which no discernible function has been identified, often referred to as "Junk DNA". What if these mystery genes might bring with them the experiences of our ancestors? It's amazing to think we could possibly tap into feelings and memories of those who lived thousands of years before us.

I'm always telling WT I was some kind of metal smith in a former life. I am drawn to metal objects like a bee to honey. What if these certain DNA tinglings, as I like to call them, these feelings of reincarnation come from an ancestor in my line who was a blacksmith? After all, thousands of lives come together to make up my own unique DNA.

One day, several years ago, when I was heavily into my ancestral research, I was completely enamored with a certain great-great grandmother, Mary Hopkins Hanna. I spent much of an afternoon, logging her data into my family file, and seriously pondering her life, her emotions on losing a father in the Civil War, as well as a son to tuberculosis. That evening, as I was making dinner, I found myself humming a slightly familiar, but unusual tune. Several days later, I had to identify this stubborn earworm. After quite a bit of poking around online, I found it was Listen to the Mocking Bird, 1855, an American folk song popular during the Civil War. The song is a mournful tale, the singer dreams of his sweetheart, who is dead and buried. It's said to be one of Lincoln's favorites. Perhaps it was one of Mary's, as well.

Listen to the voices of your DNA. Our forebear's lives, their joys and fears are living in us. And they happen to make this particular girl tingle.


Click HERE to go to the Lincoln Library for a listen to the song, as well as the lyrics of Listen to the Mockingbird.

lincoln's doppelgänger

A grand set of mounted Longhorn steer horns hung in his bedroom, over his bureau. It was an awesome sight to a small girl, peering up from underneath. They belonged to my great-grandfather, Glenn, son of Palestine Hanna, featured here on past Sepia Saturdays, and were from his days in Albuquerque in the early 20th century. Across the top of the horns rested a stately black walking stick, tipped with a silver cap.


Three years ago, after the death of my grandfather, my dear aunt gave me the walking stick I remember so well. After close examination, I barely made out some engraving on the cap. I pulled out my trusty magnifying glass, and played one of my favorite roles, a giddy Sherlock Holmes. Compelled to a delicious hunt, I drooled investigative juices.

Rev. N. Gillam

by

L. H. Hicks

.

As the delicate script appeared from the patina, my DNA danced a little jig. First, I checked my ancestral file, which contains the names and notations of over 6000 people, which I am proud to say, took five long years to log in and document.

.

My fourth great uncle, Oliver Hazard Perry Hanna (1813 -1880), as it turns out, was married to a Rachel Gillam. Sure enough, Rachel had a brother, Nelson Gillam (1814 - 1902) who was minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church near Delphi, Carroll County, Indiana for many years.

.

At the Carroll County Historical Museum's online site, I found a photo of Rev. Gillam. There is a certain compelling, yet haunting, Lincolnesque quality about him, with the same deep set steely blue eyes and gaunt cheek bones. They could be brothers. (I feel another research project coming on.) I was unable to pin down the one who bestowed the gift, H. L. Hicks. I assume he was a dear friend, or possibly a parishioner of his church.

.

Here's what John Rutherford has to say in his book, Millennium History of Carmel Methodist Church:

.

Reverend Nelson Gillam’s ministry here in 1851 and 1852 was not the superficial kind in which numbers are counted, but the kind in which men are gloriously converted to God. His preaching was the type of Peter, filled with power and effectiveness.

.

He must have been quite a charismatic speaker. I would love to take a journey back in time and attend one of his Sunday sermons, his walking stick resting on one of the altar chairs, alongside the pulpit.

This is a Sepia Saturday post.

Rhythm

Since Monday's post, my DNA has been dancing a jig. I've been
pondering the rhythm of tartans, tweeds and all things autumn and
ancestral.


Tartan


I wear an atlas
of unions and creeds
that falls about me
in familiar folds.

Cloak of Irish peat
and Hoosier loam,
Celtic blue crossroads
meet golden corn.

White stone cottages
to American farms,
split rail fences
and rough hewn barns.

Kindred bands
weaved plat maps
and folk legends.
Junctions of wool

draw me
in from the cold.
Long after looms
and hands are gone,

the rhythm of warp and woof
still keeps me warm.



willow, 2009

I was mesmerized with this portrait of a tartan clad lady posted by
Pamela last week. We chatted a bit about her and I asked as to the
background on the painting. Although she didn't know the identity of
the woman or the artist, Pamela mentioned the fact that the portrait
reminded her of me. I'll have to admit there is a haunting similarity.

We are all about tartans here at the manor. And as the zesty fall
weather approaches, I am anxious to bring out the soft wool tartans
and tweeds. The autumn and winter wardrobe is always so much
more snuggly and interesting. Last year for Christmas, I gave hand
made family tartan wool hats as gifts; a cap for WT and a tam for
my daughter. WT is known to don his kilt on holidays and special
occasions and puff out a tune or two on his bagpipes. Two songs are
just about the limit inside the manor.

The notion of belonging to a tribe, for me conjures feelings of warm
pride and connectedness. The word "clan", in its original sense
referred to a kindred group. The origins of the distinctive tartan
patterns are shrouded in controversy. To the Gael it was breacan
feile, speckled cloth, but the word tartan appears to come from the
French word tirtaine, implying a European origin.

The earliest written references to tartan occur in the accounts of the
treasurer of James III in 1471 and descriptions of the multicolored
cloth appear in Lowland Scots, my ancestors, by the 1570s. The
"sett" or pattern varied from place to place, so a person might
identify the origins of the wearer from the colors of his cloth. It
appears the earliest tartans were territorial rather than clan-based,
although in many cases the two would have been synonymous. One
of the earliest examples of tartan is a Falkirk sett, a small piece of
cloth used as a stopper in an earthenware pot. The sett was in six
colors, with an intricate pattern and was dated as being made some
time between 250 and 325 AD.

A few years back, I met an elderly distant cousin online, while doing
some genealogical research. She was so kind as to mail me a piece of
my family tartan. It's such a treasure, since all the tartans around
the manor are those of WT's family. I've been pondering what
exactly to do with the fabric. I think I'll just finish the edges, and
with DNA tingling pride, wear it as a scarf. Now, I'll have to keep
my eyes peeled for the perfect vintage Celtic brooch.

Did you know, in order to prevent fictitious tartan patterns, family
tartans are now standardized and must be registered with the Court
of the Lord Lyon in Edinburgh? The Scottish Tartans Society,
established in 1963, is now the world authority on Highland dress.
There's also serious tartan protocol. The Lord Lyon states that a
clan tartan should only be worn by those who profess allegiance to
the clan's chief. (Heavens to murgatroyd!) I promise I'll wear my
tartan with all due proper respect and loyalty. Gee, wonder what
happens if you wear an erroneous tartan?

Irish Madness

Wildeve, was kind enough to send me this great book by Patrick Tracey. There were some unusual synchronicities, which she took as a sign, to pick up a signed (no pun intended) copy, from one of Tracey's book signings, for me. I love when things like that happen. After I read it, I knew exactly why she was prompted to send it.



Winner of the 2009 PEN New England Award, Tracey's book follows his journey to Ireland in search of answers to his family's struggle with mental illness. Two of Tracey's sisters developed schizophrenia, and his mother was troubled until her death, with the burden of realizing she passed the illness genetically on to her family.

In a London pub, Tracey randomly meets a doctor, who tells him of a genetic clue to the cause of schizophrenia in Ireland. The link was found in blood samples taken in County Roscommon, home to Tracey's ancestors. This information inspires a quest to unearth the roots of his family's multigenerational struggle with schizophrenia.

Tracey takes off on an excursion across Ireland, in a renovated camper, searching faerie mounds, haunted caves and healing springs. He pours over historical records and visits distant cousins looking for clues and separating fact from the legends of Irish madness.

I connected with Tracey on so many levels. My family traces back to Ireland and also has the genetic link to schizophrenia, which has troubled members of my extended family for several generations. I was right there with him, curious and driven through the entire account of his quest. I started reading and couldn't put it down.

This book is both poignant and powerful. Although it didn't give me all the answers, it did give me some much needed peace. Thank you, Mr. Tracey. And thank you, Wildeve. It was a sign.

For more info on Patrick Tracey and his book, click [HERE].

Knots and Earworms

I was doing some ancestral research a few years ago. For several

days, I concentrated on my great-great-grandmother, Mary. Not

only was I searching through census lists, trying to locate her mother,

sister and brother, who were all separated after her father died in the

Civil War, but I was empathizing with her feelings on losing a father,

as well as, later in life, a young son.

Over the course of the days while I was doing this research, a song,

out of nowhere, kept playing over and over again in my head. Finally,

it was driving me nutty and I had to look it up. It was a slow version

of Listen to the Mockingbird, a song very popular during the Civil

War, with sad lyrics about a singer, dreaming of his sweetheart, dead

and buried, and a mockingbird singing over her grave. I certainly

hadn't heard this song anywhere and thought it a strange earworm.

It suddenly came to mind, that it must have a connection to Mary,

who I had been thinking about so intently.

After telling this to my sister this weekend, I was inspired to write

this poem.

Maternal Knots


My foremothers, apron to apron,
bind generations
with deer hide knots and Irish muslin.

Their spirits beam ancestral pride,
within my household walls
did hide, as newborns cried;

lulled to sleep with fiddle tunes
of mockingbird,
native chant and Celtic runes.

Weave 'round their offspring
gentle ties, connecting each
with tribal string;

maternal knots join with the earth,
will reason for each new one's birth.


Willow, 2009

Genetic Genealogy

After hitting a brick wall in the ancestral search for the lineage of
WT's great-great-great-grandfather, Andrew, we submitted a
sample of his DNA to Family Tree DNA. When the results were
obtained, they were given over to his surname project. Compared to
over one hundred other DNA samples, from the same surname, we
were able to rule out several possible lineages. It was also amazing
to see what his geographic ancestral origins were. Hopefully, as
more participate in the project, we will be able to make an exact
match and trace Grandpa Andrew's family tree back to Ireland or
Scotland.

DNA testing can show if two people are related, suggested geographic

origins, if you are of African, Jewish, Native American heritage, or

even if you match Thomas Jefferson. In the field of genetic genealogy,

testing can help, through the surname projects, find documents for

that elusive ancester, his homeland, or if you are related to another

family with the same surname.

Family Tree DNA is a commercial genetic genealogy company based
in Houston, Texas with its partner laboratory, Arizona Research
Labs, housed at the University of Arizona. They offers analysis of
YDNA, mtDNA, and autosomal DNA to individuals for genealogical
purposes based on DNA samples collected using a cheek swab
method with a kit. All samples once submitted are stored at Arizona
Research Labs for future testing and archiving of DNA samples
collected from family members. In February 2009, Family Tree
DNA announced that they, in partnership with the National
Geographic Genographic Project, have tested over 500,000 kits.

My sister and I recently submitted our own DNA samples to Family
Tree DNA, just to see if we have a match.

The Genealogy Bug

As I mentioned recently, I've been bitten by the genealogy bug and have spent the last five or six years researching and logging over 6000 of ancestors and their statistics into my family file. Several of you asked for tips on how to get started. There is such a wealth of information available online today, formerly only accessible from county courthouses and libraries.

If I could choose just one site, it would have to be Ancestry. Thousands of searchable databases are readily available; census, old newspapers, social security death records, state records and thousands of personal family genealogical files, just to name a few. It is a little pricey, but compared to traveling to specific locations to research, it is a great deal. You can purchase an annual subscription, which is the most economical, or you can pay for access for just three months. Some other great sites are Find a Grave, Rootsweb, (Ancestry's free site) and the Bureau of Land Management. Also, many states now have searchable archive databases online.

Don't be afraid to get into Rootsweb and some of the other sites and leave stats for the ancestors you are searching for on their bulletin boards. Many times other distant cousins are looking for the same family. I connected with several unknown cousins this way and plugged into a wealth of family info and the priceless pleasure of their friendship.

Another valuable and worthwhile avenue is The National Archives. Military service records and pension files are available to purchase. I paid around $40 for WT's great-great grandfather's complete Civil War file. I was absolutely thrilled when they mailed a packet of photo copies of over 80 pages; a treasure trove of info

and well worth the investment.

WT has participated in his family surname DNA project, through Family Tree DNA. After requesting a packet, swab the inside of your cheek and mail it in. When the testing is complete, you are

linked with others with matching DNA . It's another wonderful way to trace your lineage and connect with other descendants.

I use Family Tree Maker genealogy software available to purchase from Ancestry. It has lots of great features, simple to install and very user friendly. So, hey hey, there you have it, my bloggy friends. Hope this gives you a little helpful info if you're interested in researching and documenting your roots. Let me warn you, it's very addictive, but persistence does pay off. Happy hunting!

By the way, the above photo is the oldest in my personal family collection. It is a tin type, self portrait of my great-great-great grandfather Joseph Lorenzo Dow Hanna, county surveyor for Howard County, Indiana in the 1860's. On the back of the tin type, is written in pencil, "executed by J. Hanna, artist". I come from a long line of photographers, so it's definitely in my blood. My camera is broken and I'm about to jump out of my skin without it!