… And so, it begins…

Morning, kids… I’m realizing, again, that, from this point, Labor Day in the USA, that, we are on a downhill slide, so to speak, until January 5th, or so. Summer is winding down, and modding into cooler, darker weather. We’re ramping up for holidays, events, changes, and so many speeding days. We’re getting ready for autumn- a lovely time of year in the midwest, though, I prefer summer- then, Halloween. A BIG holiday for my family. Launch from that into the Thanksgiving season, again, here in the U.S. And then, Yule, Christmas, Solstice, and all the other holidays… The glide into New Years, and then… Quiet and cold…

So, hold onto your whatever, and, here we go!!!


These are the moms of our memories. Of our tiny youth… Carol

During the war servicemen would ask for photos to take overseas with them – this was the one my mom gave them. I love it.



Mom had that look of ‘here comes the future’ and stared it in the eye…

Hunting for my Genes

I have been talking to dead people. Searching for long lost people.
Hoping they will speak to me, or at least tell me where they- and I-
come from.
My parents divorced when I was two years old. They both remarried,
but I never saw my father again. Times were different. Choices were
made and new lives were forged… At what cost…? He didn’t show any
interest in knowing how I turned out, whether that was his choice or
not, that is how it was.
From time to time I wondered the how, why, and what if, of this.
Obviously he had no interest in me, so, as a young man, I had no
interest in him. We lived in the same city, but to my knowledge we
didn’t run into each other, though later I found out that we lived six
blocks apart, and drove the same model auto.
As I got older, this subject appeared less and less in my life. I
had, and have, a good, no, very good life. A wonderful wife, a
fulfilling time on the planet. Music, adventures, close friends, all
the things that make a good life.

One afternoon, after we got home
from work, I was wandering from one room to another, the television on
in the background, five o’clock news on. A fire. A death. A name. Wait! What?! My
father…  That can’t be the name I heard. It was… Killed in a
fire. I quickly double checked the phone book for an address, like
that would make this a big bad mistake. But the phone book
chimed in its bad news. It was him…

Time has passed. Lives are different, so, there was no need to involve myself. However, my lovely wife, and my sister went to the visitation, to see who these people were, that abandoned me… They were all a bit surprised. Both my family, and ‘the other family’.  A half sister that didn’t know I existed, met Maggie and my sister. My sister knew the half sister through work connections. “What are you doing here?” ” My brother is your half brother”. “Well, that explains the photo of the little boy, Timmy, on dads dresser, all these years”… Whoa… That was a showstopper….

Jeannine got my half sisters email address, so we corresponded a little, but, none of the other family were interested, and, the half sister fell by the wayside, after a couple weeks.  So much for a reconciliation…  But since then, I have been drawn more and more, to searching my roots/ancestors/genealogy.  I know I am 3/4 Irish, and have this low constant rumble of want to know where in Ireland my bloodline is located. I can’t say that I want to meet any of my living family here, since they are not interested in me, but, I am really drawn to the ones who have passed on, that made the journey to the United States, for a better life.  Who were they, what were they like, where were they born, lived, and decided to leave?

Hoare Abbey

I have in the last week, spent hours trying to find out those answers, but, they are very good at keeping a secret.  I have found my great grand father, on the male side. Where he came from, before crossing the Atlantic, is still a mystery. The Great great Grandmother was a little easier. Her family is from Count Cork, but that is the end of the trail for this week…

My Yearly Whine/Rant About my Heritage

Every year I tell this story. I’m not sure if I’m trying to come to a conclusion, or just a better perspective of the situation.  Bear with me, as I attempt to figure it out.

I was born in 1954, and two yrs later, my parents divorced. I never knew my father. I have no memories of him that come to me.   It was a nasty seperation, from what I can get from my mom. She remarried, and, from that point on, we didn’t speak of my father. I liken it to Lord Voldermort, in the Harry Potter series… ” he who must not be named”… I did learn that there was going to be a sharing of me, but, after he remarried, his wife put a quick halt to that. Absolutely no communication with me was the new rule. For what reason I do not know, he complied. I never saw him again.

He was full blood Irish. A member of the Irish Marching Society, here in town.  I always wondered how the Timothy Michael mashed up with the not Irish name. It explains a lot to me. Blood and genetics are much thicker than I thought.  Some things I have been drawn to, and aspects of my personality are now much more clear. Go figure…

Fast forward to my adult years. In my 30’s, I wondered where my father was.  Since he had made no attempt to contact me, I took it to mean that he had no desire to find out what I had become. I checked the local phone book on a whim, and to my surprise, he lived 6 blocks away from where I was renting an apartment.  I was curious, so I drove by a couple times, on the chance he would be out. No, he wasn’t ,but, I did discover that we drove the same car. Mmmmm, same neighborhood, same car…. This is a bit spooky… I never stopped to see him, thinking that he wasn’t interested.

Several years later, we were watching the 6 o’clock news. A house fire was covered, where the man of the house, perished. They then gave the name of the victim. Wait! I should know that name… I do… It was my father. Even without seeing him for over 45 years, it brought me to a standstill.  This is surreal, though I’m not the one who just died, or lost a husband or father I knew.  Guess the decision to make contact or not, has been decided now.

My wife and my sister, who is a half sister, different fathers, decided to go to the visitation to see the people who didn’t want to see me, ever… Not to cause trouble, but out of curiousity.  They went. It was a bit odd, but everyone survived it. I did not go, because I didn’t want to stir up any animosities to go with the grief they were feeling. Also because I wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole thing. One half sister, same father, didn’t know I existed. “we’ll have to get together”… I texted her a couple times, giving her an out of not actually talking to me. She never did…

It does kind of nibble at me… What if… What if we spoke or reconciled. What if one of us had made the move. Would anything be different?  Would either of us be better for it, or would things be better left alone. A half a century is a long time to try and make up for, or change. Some things are better left alone…. Is that an excuse or common sense?   Never getting the chance to ask “how come” to him? Would either one of us come to a better place for that?

The one point that over and over shakes the foundation is this… As my wife was at the visitation talking to the sister that didn’t know I existed, the sister said, ” ah, now I know who the picture of the little boy named Timmy was, on my father’s dresser”!  Whew…. Changes my perspective of it all, or at least shakes it up quite a bit.

No fair…