Actually, I’m not talking about the new Property Bros show. In fact, I’ve never watched it, but I can relate. After having given up our schizophrenic life between Maryland and Florida, we’ve gone through a bit of a metamorphosis. Do we stay in our Stoneybrook home or should be move to another home on Venice Island?
Stoneybrook is a ‘gated’ community about 15 miles from the island and, hence, the beach. Gated. Really? I never thought in a million years I’d agree to live in a gated community. It’s a royal pain in the you know where. Not easy for having guests. Not ideal for me, the social butterfly. Perfect for BH, a man of solitude.
I guess the upside of that is it’s Florida. Home of the lunatics, where novelist Carl Hiaasen can get a book idea daily on the six o’clock news. Just this week: Naked Florida man wearing bra burglarizes several cars in New Port Richie parking lot or Sarasota father accused of using zip ties to bind son to a piece of plywood at girlfriend’s home. No wonder the state has mandated mental health classes in public schools starting in the 6th grade.
I love the island, though. The quaint downtown built in the fabulous 1920s era. Mediterranean style architecture, wonderful restaurants, specialty shops, beautiful Royal palms lining the street all the way down to the beach. Oh, yeah, I want to live there.
The hunt commences. Most of the houses were built in the 50s and 60s…choppy rooms, low ceilings, tiny masters, tiny bathrooms, many without pools….such a bargain at $600,000. Or, you can build or get new construction starting at $1,000,000. Yes, we’d like a bigger yard and a bigger lanai and sliders from the master to the pool and a three-car garage and, of course, waterfront.
And, then, I stop and take stock and think, “What are you doing?!!!” We don’t need those things. Go bigger at 70? Dumbest idea ever. Not to speak of the fact that it would cost us at least 5x what we’re paying now. Even dumber. Plus, after seeing dozens of homes, we always liked ours better. At least, enough that we weren’t willing to pull up stakes and move. We have new construction, with high ceilings and all tiled floors and an open floor plan opening up to a pool and hot tub with a view of tropical plants and wildlife.
I could not in my wildest dreams give up new construction to completely renovate a house from top to bottom. Those days are so done. Yes, I loved doing that in New England with turn of the century houses but the thought of work at my age makes me ill. At least, that kind of work. Who am I kidding? I’m not fond of any type of work these days. I have retired and I take that literally.
The decision has been made. Stoneybrook will be our forever home. For the past few months, I have been tackling some of the rooms to make them cozier and more my style. When we furnished this house we had three weeks to move in and we had absolutely nothing, so, basically, our house is Costco chic. Which I am not denigrating because I love the furniture. Besides, it’s the only furniture BH and I could both agree on.
The irony is that he favors bright colors and has a more flamboyant style yet he is very conservative and fairly predictable. After some of the relationships I’ve been in, that is a very good thing. No complaints. And I’m the complete opposite. I favor a style with clean lines and muted colors.
So far, with BH’s blessing, I’ve finished the grandkids’ room and the guest bedroom. Finally, this week, the office is done, done, done. The TV has been mounted on the wall, while the TV stand found a new home at Goodwill. After four backbreaking hours, BH put together a corner bookshelf/storage unit. He was in such pain he actually broke down and saw a chiropractor. This is a man who absolutely refuses to see a doctor for anything!
My final act was to hang pictures with all new frames from Amazon. Fifty years later, we finally framed and hung our degrees. Is that crazy? Really, who cares now? I had this vision of a gallery wall with old family pictures of my grandparents, my parents’ wedding picture, the homestead in Mobile. But, I will tell you I am so intimidated by hanging pictures that I never hung anything on the walls in my Columbia condo and I was there for 10 years.
But, I was rescued by BH’s sister, Sandy, who researched gallery walls and together we laid them out on the floor. With the help of a measuring tape, a level, a pencil and hanging strips, it took three of us to get it right. Those strips are amazing. I will never put another hole in a wall unless the picture weights over 50 pounds.
I admit I tend to be a perfectionist….if the picture is a teeny bit crooked, I can be obsessive. I will say, though, I am loving this gallery wall. It was the finishing touch, and now I get such a sense of satisfaction of seeing those pictures on the wall instead of stacked on the floor. It’s the little things in life, isn’t it?
I have two other rooms that could use a little enhancing but then, again, this is our forever home! Lots of time.
Thursday, July 18, 2019
Thursday, July 11, 2019
The Name Game
“Brenda, Brenda, bo-renda
Banana-fana fo-frenda
Fee-fi-fo-mrenda
Brenda!’
Remember that tune? The Name Game, written and performed by Shirley Ellis back in 1964? Of course, I inserted my name instead of hers but that rhyming name game tune was a huge hit. Anyone alive back then couldn’t forget it.
Why that ever entered my mind is a complete mystery to me. But, I’ve been thinking a lot about names lately. Every now and then, I get on my ancestry.com kick. It’s nothing if not fascinating. Basically, all I can find out are names, birth and death dates and where they lived, and the further you go back, the harder it is to learn even the basic facts.
But, I just enjoy looking at the names. There’s the Irish side, the French side, the Danish side. How interesting it is to see which names have been passed down from generation to generation.
On the Danish side, Andrew has endured five generations, starting with my great grandfather who was actually an Anders, the Danish version of the name. Then came my grandfather, Andrew Christian, followed by my father and brother, both named Andrew Evald, another Danish name. My son is Justin Andrew and I have a cousin and his son who are both Andys.
Nothing survived on the female side, although I like the name Astrid, which was my grandmother’s middle name but, evidently, no one else did.
Remember the Potato Famine in the 1840s? Neither do I, but that inspired the three Kelley sisters to immigrate to New Orleans: Rose, Grace and Mary, all very young. Very Irish names, of course. Mary ended up being my great, great grandmother. She married a man 15 years her senior, Pique Dominique, who was a very well off, retired merchant and they had six children, four girls and two boys. There were no Marys but there was a Grace and a Rose.
Looking at the written Federal Census is a lesson in handwriting and spelling. The handwriting is either absolutely beautiful or unintelligible. The spelling, at least in the Mobile, Alabama, census I saw left a lot to be desired. The Dominiques became the Domonicks. Pique morphed to Piciew. Francois was Franscwa. And, somehow, Grace was Lucretia. But, I’m getting sidetracked here.
Mary’s daughter, Grace, my great grandmother, married Maximo Suck, who claimed to have immigrated from England, but we’re fairly certain he was Jewish and from Germany. They had three daughters, Eulalie, Grace and Lucille. So, that’s three generations of Grace. Only Lucille married and, of course, the first child was named…..you guessed it! Grace. My mother. And, although, she didn’t name my sister or me Grace, my brother named his youngest daughter, Emileigh Grace. So, there you have it….five generations of Grace.
Then, there’s Lucille. Lots of those, too. There’s my grandmother, but there’s also my grandfather’s mother, her mother-in-law: Lucille Elizabeth. That was the merging of the Georgia dirt farmer with the Mobile aristocracy. I don’t recommend it…lol.
My grandmother named her daughter, Helen Lucille. My mother named me Brenda Lucille and now my cousin’s daughter is named Kathryn Lucille. Another five generations name. Heaven knows how many there were before my great grandparents and how many will follow.
I love learning about my family and the names that are passed on. Sometimes, I wish I’d done this years ago but It was a whole lot harder pre ancestry.com. I highly recommend it!
Banana-fana fo-frenda
Fee-fi-fo-mrenda
Brenda!’
Remember that tune? The Name Game, written and performed by Shirley Ellis back in 1964? Of course, I inserted my name instead of hers but that rhyming name game tune was a huge hit. Anyone alive back then couldn’t forget it.
Why that ever entered my mind is a complete mystery to me. But, I’ve been thinking a lot about names lately. Every now and then, I get on my ancestry.com kick. It’s nothing if not fascinating. Basically, all I can find out are names, birth and death dates and where they lived, and the further you go back, the harder it is to learn even the basic facts.
But, I just enjoy looking at the names. There’s the Irish side, the French side, the Danish side. How interesting it is to see which names have been passed down from generation to generation.
On the Danish side, Andrew has endured five generations, starting with my great grandfather who was actually an Anders, the Danish version of the name. Then came my grandfather, Andrew Christian, followed by my father and brother, both named Andrew Evald, another Danish name. My son is Justin Andrew and I have a cousin and his son who are both Andys.
Nothing survived on the female side, although I like the name Astrid, which was my grandmother’s middle name but, evidently, no one else did.
Remember the Potato Famine in the 1840s? Neither do I, but that inspired the three Kelley sisters to immigrate to New Orleans: Rose, Grace and Mary, all very young. Very Irish names, of course. Mary ended up being my great, great grandmother. She married a man 15 years her senior, Pique Dominique, who was a very well off, retired merchant and they had six children, four girls and two boys. There were no Marys but there was a Grace and a Rose.
Looking at the written Federal Census is a lesson in handwriting and spelling. The handwriting is either absolutely beautiful or unintelligible. The spelling, at least in the Mobile, Alabama, census I saw left a lot to be desired. The Dominiques became the Domonicks. Pique morphed to Piciew. Francois was Franscwa. And, somehow, Grace was Lucretia. But, I’m getting sidetracked here.
Mary’s daughter, Grace, my great grandmother, married Maximo Suck, who claimed to have immigrated from England, but we’re fairly certain he was Jewish and from Germany. They had three daughters, Eulalie, Grace and Lucille. So, that’s three generations of Grace. Only Lucille married and, of course, the first child was named…..you guessed it! Grace. My mother. And, although, she didn’t name my sister or me Grace, my brother named his youngest daughter, Emileigh Grace. So, there you have it….five generations of Grace.
Then, there’s Lucille. Lots of those, too. There’s my grandmother, but there’s also my grandfather’s mother, her mother-in-law: Lucille Elizabeth. That was the merging of the Georgia dirt farmer with the Mobile aristocracy. I don’t recommend it…lol.
My grandmother named her daughter, Helen Lucille. My mother named me Brenda Lucille and now my cousin’s daughter is named Kathryn Lucille. Another five generations name. Heaven knows how many there were before my great grandparents and how many will follow.
I love learning about my family and the names that are passed on. Sometimes, I wish I’d done this years ago but It was a whole lot harder pre ancestry.com. I highly recommend it!
Thursday, July 4, 2019
Old Glory Days
It’s Independence Day, the 4th of July, the celebration of the birth of our nation and all I can think about is what it was like in my hometown of Pinecastle, Florida back in the day. In other words, way back when.
I was raised in this small, rural town five miles south of Orlando. First settlers arrived in 1870, including Will Harney, who built his log house to resemble a castle on Lake Conway. Hence, the name, Pine Castle later converted to Pinecastle. Dairy farming was the mainstay at that time.
My grandparents with three children and another one on the way arrived in the early 1930s, shortly after my grandfather lost his job in Orlando. After the glorious Florida development boom in the 20s, the Depression hit hard. Lots of family lore recalled my grandmother ringing a chicken’s neck and plucking the feathers for what they considered a real feast. Their cow, Baby, gave them milk and feed sacks were converted into underwear. I hope that part’s not true but who could make that up?
Downtown consisted of what I considered a huge feed store where the Atlantic Coast Line Railroad stopped daily. I remember my mother buying me a rabbit’s foot in the five and ten cent store, which I swear to this day brought me good luck. There was Miss Quimby’s Hair Salon where my sister and I got perms regularly even though we had natural curly hair. Doc’s Drug Store was the hangout. I can still taste his delicious milkshakes.
Gay’s Apparel sold dresses but it was too expensive for us. My mom made all our clothes except for our underwear and pajamas. Lonnie’s Grocery Store was the only grocer in town. Of course, there was a small post office where we bought stamps for 3 cents. The Methodist and Baptist churches anchored the north and south ends of town.
All major events were held at the Pine Castle Women’s Club. Dave’s Hardware Store was right next to Meloon’s Correct Craft whose motorboats became hugely popular.
The elementary school was built in 1877. By the time I enrolled, there were about 200 children and several of my teachers had also taught the previous generation. It was an everybody knew everybody environment so you couldn’t get away with much, even though I tried my darnedest.
This was still in the day when all the housing was wood framed, and there were still more than a few outhouses in existence. We lived down the road from my grandparents who gifted my parents with a lot. My father, a local GI, along with my uncles built our house out of a barracks from the army base.
Every day the town whistle sounded at noon, which you could hear for miles around. The Dixie Highway, later Orange Avenue, was the main street through town.
And, every fourth of July, there was a small parade followed by games and square dancing at the elementary school. We all dressed up in our red, white, and blue outfits, waving our miniature flags. It seemed like everybody showed up to celebrate the birth of the world’s greatest democracy.
As a child, I just remember how happy everyone seemed. I don’t remember people being rich or poor. I don’t remember anyone overindulging or arguing about the state of the world. I just remember playing with my friends.
Later in the day, there were family BBQs, where we all stuffed ourselves to the gills, followed by slices of fresh watermelon sprinkled with salt. The festivities were capped off with all of us children running around the yard with sparklers. Firecrackers were not allowed...."you'll blow up your hand" declared the adults in charge. It was a simpler way of life.
Not necessarily better. We lacked diversity. There was little or no inclusion. Women were not in the workplace in great numbers. The 50s were the quiet before the storm of the 60s.
You can never go home, say the sages. And they are right. My hometown got enveloped by Disney shortly after I left for college never to be seen again. I love that I grew up in a small town even though I didn’t appreciate it then. I couldn’t wait to leave to broaden my world.
But, every now and then, I love to reminisce. That town still lives in my memories.
I was raised in this small, rural town five miles south of Orlando. First settlers arrived in 1870, including Will Harney, who built his log house to resemble a castle on Lake Conway. Hence, the name, Pine Castle later converted to Pinecastle. Dairy farming was the mainstay at that time.
My grandparents with three children and another one on the way arrived in the early 1930s, shortly after my grandfather lost his job in Orlando. After the glorious Florida development boom in the 20s, the Depression hit hard. Lots of family lore recalled my grandmother ringing a chicken’s neck and plucking the feathers for what they considered a real feast. Their cow, Baby, gave them milk and feed sacks were converted into underwear. I hope that part’s not true but who could make that up?
Downtown consisted of what I considered a huge feed store where the Atlantic Coast Line Railroad stopped daily. I remember my mother buying me a rabbit’s foot in the five and ten cent store, which I swear to this day brought me good luck. There was Miss Quimby’s Hair Salon where my sister and I got perms regularly even though we had natural curly hair. Doc’s Drug Store was the hangout. I can still taste his delicious milkshakes.
Gay’s Apparel sold dresses but it was too expensive for us. My mom made all our clothes except for our underwear and pajamas. Lonnie’s Grocery Store was the only grocer in town. Of course, there was a small post office where we bought stamps for 3 cents. The Methodist and Baptist churches anchored the north and south ends of town.
All major events were held at the Pine Castle Women’s Club. Dave’s Hardware Store was right next to Meloon’s Correct Craft whose motorboats became hugely popular.
The elementary school was built in 1877. By the time I enrolled, there were about 200 children and several of my teachers had also taught the previous generation. It was an everybody knew everybody environment so you couldn’t get away with much, even though I tried my darnedest.
This was still in the day when all the housing was wood framed, and there were still more than a few outhouses in existence. We lived down the road from my grandparents who gifted my parents with a lot. My father, a local GI, along with my uncles built our house out of a barracks from the army base.
Every day the town whistle sounded at noon, which you could hear for miles around. The Dixie Highway, later Orange Avenue, was the main street through town.
And, every fourth of July, there was a small parade followed by games and square dancing at the elementary school. We all dressed up in our red, white, and blue outfits, waving our miniature flags. It seemed like everybody showed up to celebrate the birth of the world’s greatest democracy.
As a child, I just remember how happy everyone seemed. I don’t remember people being rich or poor. I don’t remember anyone overindulging or arguing about the state of the world. I just remember playing with my friends.
Later in the day, there were family BBQs, where we all stuffed ourselves to the gills, followed by slices of fresh watermelon sprinkled with salt. The festivities were capped off with all of us children running around the yard with sparklers. Firecrackers were not allowed...."you'll blow up your hand" declared the adults in charge. It was a simpler way of life.
Not necessarily better. We lacked diversity. There was little or no inclusion. Women were not in the workplace in great numbers. The 50s were the quiet before the storm of the 60s.
You can never go home, say the sages. And they are right. My hometown got enveloped by Disney shortly after I left for college never to be seen again. I love that I grew up in a small town even though I didn’t appreciate it then. I couldn’t wait to leave to broaden my world.
But, every now and then, I love to reminisce. That town still lives in my memories.
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