Gloria Vanderbilt was 10 years old when she became a spoil of war.
At stake was not only who she would live with, but who would control her very substantial trust fund.
In one corner: Gloria's mother, Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt, widow of Reginald Claypoole Vanderbilt.
In the opposing corner: Gloria's aunt, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, Reginald's sister, patroness of the arts, and the wife of Harry Payne Whitney, banker and investor.
The setting: a Manhattan courtroom in October of 1934, during the depths of the Great Depression.
Called "the trial of the century" by the press, it fascinated a nation and gave it a window into the lifestyle that most Americans could not even fathom.
So why were two women fighting over the same child?
I'm sure there was a long list of reasons.
Much of the situation revolved around Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt's age. She was allegedly 19 when she married the 42-year-old Reginald Claypoole Vanderbilt. Because she was not 21 yet -- in other words, not legally of age -- she received her father's legal permission to get married.
They were married in March of 1923. In February of 1924, their only child, Gloria Laura, was born.
In September, 1925, Reginald Vanderbilt died of an internal hemorrhage (probably complicated by cirrhosis of the liver), leaving his widow in charge of a trust fund totally $2.5 million dollars. But, because Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt was believed to be 20, and still underage, she also needed a legal guardian. The only income available for her and her young daughter was the interest from little Gloria's trust.
That income funded Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt's travels to Europe over the next several years. She traveled in high society circles and went through a brief engagement to a German prince. (Gloria's twin sister, Thelma, was also the mistress of Edward, Prince of Wales; later to become Edward the VIII.) Little Gloria spent most of her time with her live-in nurse.
When little Gloria developed tonsillitis, she and her mother sailed back to New York. Little Gloria had her tonsils out, and then, aunt Gertrude Whitney offered to let little Gloria recuperate at her house.
Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt accepted the offer, left her daughter with her aunt Gertrude, and sailed back to Europe, having very little contact with the child. Then, in 1934, fearing that she was about to be cut completely out of her daughter's life, she went back to New York and filed a petition for guardianship.
Gertrude Whitney's response was to declare Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt an unfit mother.
The war was on.
Back and forth, during those days of late 1934, the headlines screamed of scandal, of "unfit motherhood", told of Gloria's "neglect" of her child while partying in Europe and socializing with relatives of the royal family. When a witness testified that she'd seen Gloria kissing another woman "like a lover", a shocked judge ordered the courtroom cleared of all press.
Caught in the middle was a 10-year-old child whom no one seemed to consider.
Little Gloria, on the one hand, wrote her mother letters about how much she missed her and loved her. But during the trial, she told the judge she hated her mother and was afraid of her. Barbara Goldsmith, the author of Little Gloria . . . Happy At Last, her account of the sensational trial, theorized that little Gloria feared being kidnapped and murdered by her mother. Only two years before, the baby son of Charles Lindbergh had been kidnapped and murdered . . . and Gloria herself , because of her wealth and the Vanderbilt name, was also a target for a kidnapper.
But many years later, little Gloria herself said that she'd been coached by her aunt's attorney to lie about how she'd been treated.
The judge ruled in favor of Gertrude Whitney, with Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt allowed weekend visitation.
Gloria Laura Vanderbilt died today, at age 95. Did she live happily ever after, after that bitter, sensational custody trial?
She married four times. She inherited that trust fund at age 21 and immediately erupted in a mass amount of lavish spending. One of the recipients of the Vanderbilt money was Pat DiCiccio, her first husband, from whom she got a Reno divorce. She immediately married conductor Leopold Stokowski. Later, she would marry Sidney Lumet and Wyatt Cooper. Her last husband was the father of CNN correspondent Anderson Cooper.
She became an actress, and then a businesswoman. For my generation, Gloria Vanderbilt jeans were a prized possession, and I remember having two Gloria Vanderbilt tops, one in pink, one in turquoise.
Then she became a writer, telling her story in Once Upon a Time and other books.
The New York Times published Barbara Harrison's review of Once Upon a Time, and in it, stated that little Gloria Vanderbilt "knew her mother just enough to worship her . . . and just enough to fear that her capricious mother would take her away from the few adults she briefly trusted." During the weekend visitations awarded Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt, she used that time to, once again, associate with the adults in her social circle and not bond with her daughter.
Her aunt Gertrude Whitney, who'd fought in court and won custody, told her niece she loved her . . . one time, and only one time.
Was "the trial of the century" a fight over the best interests of a 10-year-old girl, the desperate attempts of a aunt to rescue her niece from the clutches of an unfit mother? Or the desperate attempt of a mother to rescue her beloved only daughter from the clutches of a manipulative aunt?
I fear that little Gloria lived her life believing that she was nothing more that a prize to be displayed, and nothing more than a spoil of war.
The eighty-five years she lived after her custody trial is a long, long time to bear that burden.
I hope now that she will find peace.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Statcounter
Monday, June 17, 2019
Wednesday, June 12, 2019
30 years of journals
Stacked in a box and scattered among my bookshelves are various notebooks chronicling over 30 years of my life.
I have Anne Frank to thank for that.
I've kept a diary off and on since I was 10 years old. I no longer have the diaries I wrote in as a child and teenager. The notebooks I have begin at the end of 1986 and continue on to the present.
I first learned about Anne Frank in the 4th grade. I don't remember learning about the Holocaust then, although I'm sure Adolf Hitler and the Nazis were mentioned. What I remember is that there was a girl named Anne Frank, that she kept a diary, and she called it Kitty. The lines I remember reading in our lesson on Anne Frank are: "Anne had only begun to write. If she had lived, her talent would have developed and grown."
When I started my very first diary, it was in one of those five year diaries that don't give you enough room to write in. I called my diary Beth because Beth was my best friend in the 5th grade. (I remember one of my entries was about how badly I'd performed in either kickball or softball and I wrote, "Dumb me, I'm bad in it.")
I started seriously writing a diary in 8th grade and called it Carrie, after an imaginary character of mine that I developed into a book character. That year that I was in 8th grade, I wrote a book about a girl gymnast named Carrie who went to the Olympics and won a gold medal. This was in 1976 and Nadia Comaneci was one of my heroines.
I no longer address my diaries to an imaginary person, and I am not as consistent in writing in a journal as I probably should be. And I don't know what's going to happen to those journals when I die. I'm not sure if anyone would be interested in my life.
I don't know what inspired Anne to want to keep a diary in the first place. She says in her opening pages that she didn't have a real friend and she'd decided that her diary would be that friend.
Today, June 12, 2019, would have been Anne's 90th birthday. On June 12, 1929, she was born in Frankfurt, in Germany. She was four years old, just barely starting to form memories, when her family left Germany and settled in Holland.
June 12, 1942 was her 13th birthday. That was the day where she "went to Mummy and Daddy and then to the sitting room to open my gifts. The first to greet me was you, probably the nicest of all." "You" was a red-checked notebook the size and dimensions of an autograph album. In the front, she wrote, "I hope I shall be able to confide in you completely . . . and that you will be a great support and comfort to me."
She didn't know at that moment what a "support and comfort" that diary would be. Because less than a month later, she and her family, dressed in layers of clothing and walking in a pouring rain, would enter an office on the Prinsengracht in Amsterdam, climb up the back stairs to an attic, and not leave until August 4, 1944, the day they were arrested by the Nazis.
I visited Anne Frank's hiding place in 1996. The longer I stayed there, the more claustrophobic I found the place. That's when I decided that writing in her diary saved Anne's sanity. What do you do when you're cooped up in an attic, you can't go out, you're bursting with energy, and the adults in your life may or may not be the greatest support to you?
You write.
I'm not Jewish and I'm not a young girl forced into hiding by circumstances.
But it's because of Anne that I write.
Today, she would have been 90.
Happy birthday.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
I have Anne Frank to thank for that.
I've kept a diary off and on since I was 10 years old. I no longer have the diaries I wrote in as a child and teenager. The notebooks I have begin at the end of 1986 and continue on to the present.
I first learned about Anne Frank in the 4th grade. I don't remember learning about the Holocaust then, although I'm sure Adolf Hitler and the Nazis were mentioned. What I remember is that there was a girl named Anne Frank, that she kept a diary, and she called it Kitty. The lines I remember reading in our lesson on Anne Frank are: "Anne had only begun to write. If she had lived, her talent would have developed and grown."
When I started my very first diary, it was in one of those five year diaries that don't give you enough room to write in. I called my diary Beth because Beth was my best friend in the 5th grade. (I remember one of my entries was about how badly I'd performed in either kickball or softball and I wrote, "Dumb me, I'm bad in it.")
I started seriously writing a diary in 8th grade and called it Carrie, after an imaginary character of mine that I developed into a book character. That year that I was in 8th grade, I wrote a book about a girl gymnast named Carrie who went to the Olympics and won a gold medal. This was in 1976 and Nadia Comaneci was one of my heroines.
I no longer address my diaries to an imaginary person, and I am not as consistent in writing in a journal as I probably should be. And I don't know what's going to happen to those journals when I die. I'm not sure if anyone would be interested in my life.
I don't know what inspired Anne to want to keep a diary in the first place. She says in her opening pages that she didn't have a real friend and she'd decided that her diary would be that friend.
Today, June 12, 2019, would have been Anne's 90th birthday. On June 12, 1929, she was born in Frankfurt, in Germany. She was four years old, just barely starting to form memories, when her family left Germany and settled in Holland.
June 12, 1942 was her 13th birthday. That was the day where she "went to Mummy and Daddy and then to the sitting room to open my gifts. The first to greet me was you, probably the nicest of all." "You" was a red-checked notebook the size and dimensions of an autograph album. In the front, she wrote, "I hope I shall be able to confide in you completely . . . and that you will be a great support and comfort to me."
She didn't know at that moment what a "support and comfort" that diary would be. Because less than a month later, she and her family, dressed in layers of clothing and walking in a pouring rain, would enter an office on the Prinsengracht in Amsterdam, climb up the back stairs to an attic, and not leave until August 4, 1944, the day they were arrested by the Nazis.
I visited Anne Frank's hiding place in 1996. The longer I stayed there, the more claustrophobic I found the place. That's when I decided that writing in her diary saved Anne's sanity. What do you do when you're cooped up in an attic, you can't go out, you're bursting with energy, and the adults in your life may or may not be the greatest support to you?
You write.
I'm not Jewish and I'm not a young girl forced into hiding by circumstances.
But it's because of Anne that I write.
Today, she would have been 90.
Happy birthday.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Thursday, June 6, 2019
D-Day + 75 years
Their feet hit the water in the cold dawn of June 6, 1944. They splashed ashore underneath a hail of German bullets and between explosions of German shells.
Many of them did not make it onto the beach.
Many of them did not make it off the beach.
Those that did, they possessed territory step by step, inch by inch.
We know them as "the boys of Pointe du Hoc" (thanks to Ronald Reagan), and by other names; those that landed at Omaha, Juno, and Utah Beaches.
History calls it "D-Day", and in most newspapers of the day, the word "invasion" was a prominent part of the headline. The St. Petersburg Times, in their headline of June 6th, just had one word, in type as big as they could get it: "INVASION".
Today, it's 75 years since these men splashed off the boats and onto land, since men parachuted from the sky and landed on French territory, the order of the day from General Dwight D. Eisenhower perhaps ringing in their ears:
Back on the home front, Americans like my maternal grandparents, my paternal grandmother, my parents (who would have been 11 and 6 at the time) and other relatives would have woken up to bulletins such as this from NBC radio or perhaps this from CBS radio.
One day later, Orson Welles would broadcast a magnificent portrait of what an ordinary American would have experienced on that June 6th through the eyes and voice of actress Agnes Moorehead.
Today, we know more about the human cost of war. We've known since the beginning of war about the physical cost--the deaths, the injuries, the destruction of homes and other properties. In the last 50 or so years, we've become more acquainted with the mental and psychological costs of war--post-traumatic stress disorder, survivor's guilt, nightmares, and in the case of Vietnam vets, active contempt for their service.
I hate war. But I also understand that sometimes, war is necessary. I wish it were not.
Today, we honor the men who fought at Normandy, these "boys of Pointe du Hoc", these men who parachuted and waded ashore because they believed in the cause of freedom. They probably hated war as much as I do, and probably more so since they experienced it. I never have.
Their numbers grow fewer every year. My own congregation lost a D-Day veteran just a year or two ago.
Even though their numbers grow fewer, their story must not be forgotten.
I close with Charles Schultz's comic from D-Day a number of years ago:
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Many of them did not make it onto the beach.
Many of them did not make it off the beach.
Those that did, they possessed territory step by step, inch by inch.
We know them as "the boys of Pointe du Hoc" (thanks to Ronald Reagan), and by other names; those that landed at Omaha, Juno, and Utah Beaches.
History calls it "D-Day", and in most newspapers of the day, the word "invasion" was a prominent part of the headline. The St. Petersburg Times, in their headline of June 6th, just had one word, in type as big as they could get it: "INVASION".
Today, it's 75 years since these men splashed off the boats and onto land, since men parachuted from the sky and landed on French territory, the order of the day from General Dwight D. Eisenhower perhaps ringing in their ears:
"Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Forces:
You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.
Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely.
But this is the year 1944. Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of 1940-41. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home Fronts have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men. The tide has turned. The free men of the world are marching together to victory.
I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty, and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full victory.
Good Luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking."
In Amsterdam, a young girl in hiding in an attic wrote in her diary, "This is *the* day. The invasion has begun!"
One day later, Orson Welles would broadcast a magnificent portrait of what an ordinary American would have experienced on that June 6th through the eyes and voice of actress Agnes Moorehead.
Today, we know more about the human cost of war. We've known since the beginning of war about the physical cost--the deaths, the injuries, the destruction of homes and other properties. In the last 50 or so years, we've become more acquainted with the mental and psychological costs of war--post-traumatic stress disorder, survivor's guilt, nightmares, and in the case of Vietnam vets, active contempt for their service.
I hate war. But I also understand that sometimes, war is necessary. I wish it were not.
Today, we honor the men who fought at Normandy, these "boys of Pointe du Hoc", these men who parachuted and waded ashore because they believed in the cause of freedom. They probably hated war as much as I do, and probably more so since they experienced it. I never have.
Their numbers grow fewer every year. My own congregation lost a D-Day veteran just a year or two ago.
Even though their numbers grow fewer, their story must not be forgotten.
I close with Charles Schultz's comic from D-Day a number of years ago:
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Tuesday, May 28, 2019
Tina v. Bertha, round 6417 . . .
I've written before about Hubert and Elmer; Hubert is the OCD part of me and
Elmer is the depression part of me. The
other "people" that live in my head are Agnes and Bertha. Agnes is the part of me that is anxious and
worries about the worst-case scenario. Bertha is the bully. She weighs 300 pounds, dresses in an ugly
calico housedress, and walks around smacking a rolling pin in her hand.
It's Bertha I want to talk about today.
She's lived in my head since I was a kid, and she is extremely good about telling me how dumb, stupid, etc. I am. Not only is she my inner critic, she beats me up at every opportunity. We've gone many, many rounds in the metaphorical boxing ring of my mind, and too often, she wins. Last Friday, I had what is possibly round 6417 with her.
It's Bertha I want to talk about today.
She's lived in my head since I was a kid, and she is extremely good about telling me how dumb, stupid, etc. I am. Not only is she my inner critic, she beats me up at every opportunity. We've gone many, many rounds in the metaphorical boxing ring of my mind, and too often, she wins. Last Friday, I had what is possibly round 6417 with her.
Matthew, this weekend, went on a retreat with the college/young adult class at church. I had messaged back and forth with the guys in charge asking about what the retreat would be like. I didn't want Matthew to miss out, but I also didn't want to send him into a situation that might be over his head. The guys in charge thought it would work out for him to go.
But one of the things I needed to do was to get a letter giving one of the people in charge permission to authorize medical treatment for Matthew should it be necessary. Since I have legal guardianship, Matthew cannot authorize medical treatment on his own. So I wrote up a letter, had it notarized, and put it in my purse to give to the people in charge.
Friday, we dropped Matthew off at the building. One of the guys was driving the church bus down to the retreat location. After convincing Matthew that no, he did NOT need to take his own pillow, blanket, bedspread and sheets, I kissed him good-bye and we got in the car to go to a retirement party for another church member.
We got to their house, I picked up my purse . . . and discovered
the permission letter STILL IN MY PURSE.
I panicked. Frank
told me to contact the bus driver. Which
I did. They hadn't left yet. I said, "DON'T LEAVE," and I took
off, driving frantically through the neighborhood, back to the church
building.
On the way there, Bertha took charge and started kicking me,
saying, "How stupid! You
idiot! You shouldn't have done
this!"
This time, I fought back.
This time, I fought back.
I used a version of a technique I use with Hubert: instead of fighting the thoughts, just let
them be. Sometimes, I even say to
Hubert, "Oh yeah, that sounds like a good thing. I think I'll try it in about 10 minutes." Then when 10 minutes are up, I can go another
10 minutes.
So I decided that I would let Bertha beat me up all the way
to the church building . . . but after I got there, she would not be allowed to
beat me up anymore.
I talked out loud, saying things like, "You idiot! You fool!
Worst mother in the world!"
And since I was being beat up, I yelled, "Left hook! Right cross!
Kidney punch! Gut punch!"
Saying the words out loud made me laugh, because really, it
exposes my inner Bertha for who she is:
ridiculous and mean. Laughter is
a good weapon to use against a bully.
I made it to the building, handed the letter to the bus
driver, and then relaxed.
Then I drove back to the retirement party. On the way, I told myself why I had forgotten
the letter: One, I had it in my head to
give it to a particular person, who had already gone ahead and was not the
driver of the bus. Two, I was distracted
by telling Matthew he didn't need his pillow and blanket because sheets would
be provided.
The takeaway? Next time I have to have a medical authorization letter, I will write the letter, get it notarized, and give it to Matthew to give to the appropriate person.
As it turned out, Matthew had a good time and nothing happened where he needed treatment. He told me that they talked about the book of Esther, and that he -- Matthew -- had said to someone that, if you didn't have enough of the spirit of God, you might be humbug. Matthew has heard the word "humbug" before and interprets it as "something that is not good". (In the case of certain characters in the book of Esther, he has a point.)
The takeaway? Next time I have to have a medical authorization letter, I will write the letter, get it notarized, and give it to Matthew to give to the appropriate person.
As it turned out, Matthew had a good time and nothing happened where he needed treatment. He told me that they talked about the book of Esther, and that he -- Matthew -- had said to someone that, if you didn't have enough of the spirit of God, you might be humbug. Matthew has heard the word "humbug" before and interprets it as "something that is not good". (In the case of certain characters in the book of Esther, he has a point.)
Bertha and I have gone many rounds in the boxing ring of my
thoughts. This was not the first fight
we had, nor, unfortunately, will it be the last. Like Rocky Balboa, the movie and the sequels
will probably go on until the day I die.
But at least this time, at the end of round 6417, I was still standing at the sound of the bell.
But at least this time, at the end of round 6417, I was still standing at the sound of the bell.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Sunday, April 28, 2019
Goodbye, Mom
This past week I took part of my mother up to Kentucky with me. I took her to my grandfather's gravesite, eulogized her . . . and then I told her goodbye and I left her there.
Now that you are totally confused, let me explain.
My mother died back in November, 2017. She asked to be cremated, probably because she'd had enough emotional turmoil dealing with my father's funeral, my grandmother's, and my aunt's (her sister) over the last several years and she didn't want my sister and me to deal with that sort of turmoil. My sister honored her wishes. She asked if I wanted a small urn with some of my mother's ashes, and I said yes.
This past July, I visited my sister briefly and she gave me the urn. It's about 3-4 inches tall, blue-green in color, with a dolphin decorating the front. I thought it was appropriate because green was my mother's favorite color, she lived in Florida (famous for dolphins) and my very first favorite TV show was Flipper, about a dolphin.
I decided that since my mother was born in Kentucky, I would take part of her ashes and scatter them at the cemetery where my grandfather--her father--is buried. In a sense, it would be bringing her home.
It took several months to arrange this trip, mostly because I didn't want to drive up there during winter weather. But I finally figured out a time I could go, which was this past week, made reservations, and started getting ready.
The weirdest part was dealing with the actual ashes. When I'd first gotten the urn home, I twisted the top to see if it would open, or it if would be hard to open. The top twisted . . . but I could not bring myself to lift the lid and see what the ashes looked like. Instead, I put the urn in my china cabinet.
Last Monday, while I was alone in the house, I took the urn from the china cabinet. It was heavier that I thought it would be, probably because it was full. Then I took the top off and found myself looking at what is best described as sandy gray ashes. I put a portion in an old medicine bottle.
I left last Wednesday, driving up I-75, the road we'd travel when we'd head for Kentucky on vacation. I'm old enough to remember when you had to get off I-75 in certain places and use US 41 in Georgia and US 11 in Tennessee. I can also remember a handmade sign on the side of the road marking the exit to Plains, Georgia, the hometown of Jimmy Carter. These days, there is no missing the exit to Plains.
My cousin Susie used her iPhone to keep track of where I was. When I stopped in Knoxville for lunch, I saw her message that "I think you might be lost." I said, "I'm not lost. This is the way we always came on road trips." She said, thank God because my map shows you heading to Nashville!
I drove up State Road 33, up through Manyardville, New Tazewell, and Tazewell, over the Clinch River and near Norris Lake, where we've gone with our cousins on our mother's side, where they've waterskied (and I've tried and failed), where we've gone swimming, picked blackberries, and camped out.
In Harrogate, I made a pit stop (after a previous stop for gas in Tazewell and at a Walmart across the street for three pots of flowers). That pit stop was the Scott Cemetery, where my mother's maternal grandparents are buried. I left flowers, which was not the easiest thing to do because a) the cemetery is a small rural one which is maintained by donations and is "cataloged" online by volunteers, and b) my mother's grandparents are not buried together. My great-grandmother is buried next to a baby. There was no room for my great-grandfather. So he's buried apart from her. He was easy to find. She was not. Just as I feared that I would have to leave both sets of flowers at my great-grandfather's grave, I came around the side of a gravestone and found the woman I was looking for. One pot of flowers sits on top of my great-grandmother's grave. The other pot sits on top of my great-grandfather's.
I drove through the Cumberland Gap Tunnel, which wasn't there during the years when we made our road trips. We had to climb 25E through Virginia, past Cudjo's Cavern, then past a large sign announcing, "Welcome To Kentucky" with a picture of a horse on it.
When I got to my hotel in Harlan, I dropped off my stuff and then drove out to Rosspoint, about 10 minutes or so from where I was staying. I went looking for the cemetery where my grandfather was buried, and I found it almost by accident. This is not the first time I've ever been to my grandfather's grave. I had visited at least once before, back in 1989; but I also remembered going there as a very young child. I don't recall anyone telling me that "we're going to where your grandfather is buried", and since I would have been about four in this particular memory, I doubt if it would have registered. My maternal grandfather died in October of 1962. I was born in October of 1963, so I never knew my maternal grandfather.
Rose Lawn Cemetery, where my grandfather is buried, is another small, rural cemetery with no formal upkeep. The area around it has changed over the years, but the two landmarks that have not changed there are the two statues of Jesus. One is at the front of the cemetery, Jesus standing with his arms at his sides, his hands spread out. The other is in the middle of the cemetery, and it's Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. Engraved underneath are the words "Not my will but Thine be done." I remember playing on that statue while my mother and grandmother were over at my grandfather's grave. (My grandmother's brother and sister, along with their spouses, are also buried here.)
When I saw the statues of Jesus, I knew I'd found the right place.
So I pulled down a dirt and gravel road, parked, took my mother's ashes, the third pot of flowers I'd bought at the Walmart in Tazewell, and a copy of her eulogy (posted here), and went to my grandfather's gravestone.
I put the flowerpot right above the gravestone, and then, opened the bottle with my mother's ashes and scattered them on the grass.
Then I took Mom's eulogy and read it aloud.
I sat and I listened to the buzzing of a bee, felt the warmth of an April afternoon. The weather cooperated with me nicely. The forecast had called for rain during the days I planned to be there, and then the forecast changed. I got warm, dry weather.
And then I left my mother's ashes behind and went back to the car.
There were other things I did in Kentucky this past week, but none as important to me as this was.
I don't know if my mother ever wanted to come back to Kentucky. She didn't have as much of a tie to Harlan as my father did, because her sister lived first in Ohio and then in Florida, very near us, and her brother also lived in Ohio.
But for me, I thought that at least part of her needed to come home.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Now that you are totally confused, let me explain.
My mother died back in November, 2017. She asked to be cremated, probably because she'd had enough emotional turmoil dealing with my father's funeral, my grandmother's, and my aunt's (her sister) over the last several years and she didn't want my sister and me to deal with that sort of turmoil. My sister honored her wishes. She asked if I wanted a small urn with some of my mother's ashes, and I said yes.
This past July, I visited my sister briefly and she gave me the urn. It's about 3-4 inches tall, blue-green in color, with a dolphin decorating the front. I thought it was appropriate because green was my mother's favorite color, she lived in Florida (famous for dolphins) and my very first favorite TV show was Flipper, about a dolphin.
I decided that since my mother was born in Kentucky, I would take part of her ashes and scatter them at the cemetery where my grandfather--her father--is buried. In a sense, it would be bringing her home.
It took several months to arrange this trip, mostly because I didn't want to drive up there during winter weather. But I finally figured out a time I could go, which was this past week, made reservations, and started getting ready.
The weirdest part was dealing with the actual ashes. When I'd first gotten the urn home, I twisted the top to see if it would open, or it if would be hard to open. The top twisted . . . but I could not bring myself to lift the lid and see what the ashes looked like. Instead, I put the urn in my china cabinet.
Last Monday, while I was alone in the house, I took the urn from the china cabinet. It was heavier that I thought it would be, probably because it was full. Then I took the top off and found myself looking at what is best described as sandy gray ashes. I put a portion in an old medicine bottle.
I left last Wednesday, driving up I-75, the road we'd travel when we'd head for Kentucky on vacation. I'm old enough to remember when you had to get off I-75 in certain places and use US 41 in Georgia and US 11 in Tennessee. I can also remember a handmade sign on the side of the road marking the exit to Plains, Georgia, the hometown of Jimmy Carter. These days, there is no missing the exit to Plains.
My cousin Susie used her iPhone to keep track of where I was. When I stopped in Knoxville for lunch, I saw her message that "I think you might be lost." I said, "I'm not lost. This is the way we always came on road trips." She said, thank God because my map shows you heading to Nashville!
I drove up State Road 33, up through Manyardville, New Tazewell, and Tazewell, over the Clinch River and near Norris Lake, where we've gone with our cousins on our mother's side, where they've waterskied (and I've tried and failed), where we've gone swimming, picked blackberries, and camped out.
In Harrogate, I made a pit stop (after a previous stop for gas in Tazewell and at a Walmart across the street for three pots of flowers). That pit stop was the Scott Cemetery, where my mother's maternal grandparents are buried. I left flowers, which was not the easiest thing to do because a) the cemetery is a small rural one which is maintained by donations and is "cataloged" online by volunteers, and b) my mother's grandparents are not buried together. My great-grandmother is buried next to a baby. There was no room for my great-grandfather. So he's buried apart from her. He was easy to find. She was not. Just as I feared that I would have to leave both sets of flowers at my great-grandfather's grave, I came around the side of a gravestone and found the woman I was looking for. One pot of flowers sits on top of my great-grandmother's grave. The other pot sits on top of my great-grandfather's.
I drove through the Cumberland Gap Tunnel, which wasn't there during the years when we made our road trips. We had to climb 25E through Virginia, past Cudjo's Cavern, then past a large sign announcing, "Welcome To Kentucky" with a picture of a horse on it.
When I got to my hotel in Harlan, I dropped off my stuff and then drove out to Rosspoint, about 10 minutes or so from where I was staying. I went looking for the cemetery where my grandfather was buried, and I found it almost by accident. This is not the first time I've ever been to my grandfather's grave. I had visited at least once before, back in 1989; but I also remembered going there as a very young child. I don't recall anyone telling me that "we're going to where your grandfather is buried", and since I would have been about four in this particular memory, I doubt if it would have registered. My maternal grandfather died in October of 1962. I was born in October of 1963, so I never knew my maternal grandfather.
Rose Lawn Cemetery, where my grandfather is buried, is another small, rural cemetery with no formal upkeep. The area around it has changed over the years, but the two landmarks that have not changed there are the two statues of Jesus. One is at the front of the cemetery, Jesus standing with his arms at his sides, his hands spread out. The other is in the middle of the cemetery, and it's Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. Engraved underneath are the words "Not my will but Thine be done." I remember playing on that statue while my mother and grandmother were over at my grandfather's grave. (My grandmother's brother and sister, along with their spouses, are also buried here.)
When I saw the statues of Jesus, I knew I'd found the right place.
So I pulled down a dirt and gravel road, parked, took my mother's ashes, the third pot of flowers I'd bought at the Walmart in Tazewell, and a copy of her eulogy (posted here), and went to my grandfather's gravestone.
I put the flowerpot right above the gravestone, and then, opened the bottle with my mother's ashes and scattered them on the grass.
Then I took Mom's eulogy and read it aloud.
I sat and I listened to the buzzing of a bee, felt the warmth of an April afternoon. The weather cooperated with me nicely. The forecast had called for rain during the days I planned to be there, and then the forecast changed. I got warm, dry weather.
And then I left my mother's ashes behind and went back to the car.
There were other things I did in Kentucky this past week, but none as important to me as this was.
I don't know if my mother ever wanted to come back to Kentucky. She didn't have as much of a tie to Harlan as my father did, because her sister lived first in Ohio and then in Florida, very near us, and her brother also lived in Ohio.
But for me, I thought that at least part of her needed to come home.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Saturday, April 20, 2019
No, she did not say yes
My son was two months old on an April day 20 years ago when I decided to go shopping.
I'd heard about a shooting at a high school in Colorado, in suburban Denver, called Columbine High, and I'm sure I thought something like, "How awful!" before I went about my day.
I remember coming home and while stopped at the stoplight at the CVS near my house, hearing on the radio that the kids were coming out, running out with their hands raised. I thought, thank goodness it's over.
Then I went home and turned on the TV.
Later, I saw the first report of "25 dead."
I felt sick.
Later, the figure was revised to 12 dead. The twelve included the two shooters.
"Columbine" is actually the name of a flower. Since April 20, 1999, "Columbine" has become synonymous with "school shooting".
My son has grown up under the shadow of Columbine and the other school shootings that have since taken place. I don't think we'll ever shake that shadow. Once a Pandora's box of evil is opened, there's almost no way to shut it.
There's one myth, however, that I wish we would lay to rest: the myth that Cassie Bernall was a martyr for Christ.
In the first reports of the Columbine shooting, it came out that Cassie, who was in the library--where most of the killings took place--was asked by one of the shooters, "Do you believe in God?" She answered, "Yes," and she was shot and killed. (I heard this story on NBC the day after the shootings.)
Evangelical Christians seized on this story because it embodied everything they love: someone standing up for the cause of Christ who was not ashamed to say "yes, I believe in God" in the face of death, and who was killed for their belief.
There's just one problem with this story.
It's not true.
Craig Scott, whose sister Rachel was one of the twelve who was murdered, was in the library that horrible day. Investigators took him back into the library and asked him to recreate what happened, and when asked, where did the voice come from that said, "yes", he pointed away from where Cassie Bernall had been hiding under a table and toward where another student, Valeen Schnurr, had been.
In addition, a teacher in the library who'd called 911 left the phone line open for eight minutes. Events in the library were caught on that 911 tape.
What actually happened was that Eric Harris looked under the table where Cassie was, said, "Peek-a-boo," and shot her. It was a few moments later, when Valeen Schnurr began screaming, "Oh, my God?" that Dylan Klebold asked her if she believed in God. She said "yes" and when asked "why", she said, "because I believe and my parents brought me up that way." Valeen was shot but ultimately survived.
Cassie's mother, Misty, wrote a book about her daughter, titled "She Said Yes". Misty described her daughter as a teenager who'd become rebellious and nearly suicidal. But in the last year of her life, she turned back towards her faith. Cassie's father said that after Cassie attended a weekend church retreat, that she'd come back a completely different person.
I don't believe that anyone deliberately set out to tell a lie about Cassie Bernall. I've long believed that the events of that horrible day played out like a game of "telephone" where something is repeated down a long line of people and details are changed with every repetition. It takes time and effort to gather up all the pieces of evidence and lay them out in order to figure out what really happened. I think that by the time evidence was sifted through, arranged, and the final report written, Cassie's supposed "martyrdom" had so embedded itself into public consciousness that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to correct the impression that she truly had "laid down her life for Christ".
Later in 1999, Family Christian Bookstores came out with a line of T-Shirts and keychains with the slogan, "Yes I Believe In God". That was the moment I developed a distaste for Christian merchandising (known also as "Jesus junk".) To me, that line of merchandise was a blatant attempt to capitalize on a horrible event.
Ten years ago, journalist Dave Cullen published his book "Columbine", which is considered the definitive account of the Columbine shootings. He devotes several pages to Cassie and the story of her alleged martyrdom.
Between Cullen's book, the final report on Columbine, and the testimony of several witnesses (including Cassie's friend Emily Wyant), the evidence shows that it's time to lay this myth to rest, once and for all:
Cassie Bernall did not say "yes" when asked "do you believe in God".
Valeen Schnurr said "yes" when asked "do you believe in God".
Cassie Bernall was not martyred for her faith in God.
Cassie Bernall was murdered by a sociopath who also shot many other people before finally killing himself.
Cassie Bernall discovered faith in the last year of her life. She did say "yes" to God.
Cassie Bernall is not a martyr.
Cassie Bernall did not say "yes" and die.
Valeen Schnurr said "yes" and lived.
People did not initially intend to lie when reporting that Cassie said "yes, I believe in God".
Some people did, however, refuse to correct the impression when the facts proved that story wrong.
Cassie deserves to be remembered as a daughter whose life ended too soon. She deserves to be remembered as the person she was, a girl who lost her way for a while and who found it again.
But despite what some people--and unfortunately, some of those people are Christians--would want you to believe . . . no, she did not say yes.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
I'd heard about a shooting at a high school in Colorado, in suburban Denver, called Columbine High, and I'm sure I thought something like, "How awful!" before I went about my day.
I remember coming home and while stopped at the stoplight at the CVS near my house, hearing on the radio that the kids were coming out, running out with their hands raised. I thought, thank goodness it's over.
Then I went home and turned on the TV.
Later, I saw the first report of "25 dead."
I felt sick.
Later, the figure was revised to 12 dead. The twelve included the two shooters.
"Columbine" is actually the name of a flower. Since April 20, 1999, "Columbine" has become synonymous with "school shooting".
My son has grown up under the shadow of Columbine and the other school shootings that have since taken place. I don't think we'll ever shake that shadow. Once a Pandora's box of evil is opened, there's almost no way to shut it.
There's one myth, however, that I wish we would lay to rest: the myth that Cassie Bernall was a martyr for Christ.
In the first reports of the Columbine shooting, it came out that Cassie, who was in the library--where most of the killings took place--was asked by one of the shooters, "Do you believe in God?" She answered, "Yes," and she was shot and killed. (I heard this story on NBC the day after the shootings.)
Evangelical Christians seized on this story because it embodied everything they love: someone standing up for the cause of Christ who was not ashamed to say "yes, I believe in God" in the face of death, and who was killed for their belief.
There's just one problem with this story.
It's not true.
Craig Scott, whose sister Rachel was one of the twelve who was murdered, was in the library that horrible day. Investigators took him back into the library and asked him to recreate what happened, and when asked, where did the voice come from that said, "yes", he pointed away from where Cassie Bernall had been hiding under a table and toward where another student, Valeen Schnurr, had been.
In addition, a teacher in the library who'd called 911 left the phone line open for eight minutes. Events in the library were caught on that 911 tape.
What actually happened was that Eric Harris looked under the table where Cassie was, said, "Peek-a-boo," and shot her. It was a few moments later, when Valeen Schnurr began screaming, "Oh, my God?" that Dylan Klebold asked her if she believed in God. She said "yes" and when asked "why", she said, "because I believe and my parents brought me up that way." Valeen was shot but ultimately survived.
Cassie's mother, Misty, wrote a book about her daughter, titled "She Said Yes". Misty described her daughter as a teenager who'd become rebellious and nearly suicidal. But in the last year of her life, she turned back towards her faith. Cassie's father said that after Cassie attended a weekend church retreat, that she'd come back a completely different person.
I don't believe that anyone deliberately set out to tell a lie about Cassie Bernall. I've long believed that the events of that horrible day played out like a game of "telephone" where something is repeated down a long line of people and details are changed with every repetition. It takes time and effort to gather up all the pieces of evidence and lay them out in order to figure out what really happened. I think that by the time evidence was sifted through, arranged, and the final report written, Cassie's supposed "martyrdom" had so embedded itself into public consciousness that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to correct the impression that she truly had "laid down her life for Christ".
Later in 1999, Family Christian Bookstores came out with a line of T-Shirts and keychains with the slogan, "Yes I Believe In God". That was the moment I developed a distaste for Christian merchandising (known also as "Jesus junk".) To me, that line of merchandise was a blatant attempt to capitalize on a horrible event.
Ten years ago, journalist Dave Cullen published his book "Columbine", which is considered the definitive account of the Columbine shootings. He devotes several pages to Cassie and the story of her alleged martyrdom.
Between Cullen's book, the final report on Columbine, and the testimony of several witnesses (including Cassie's friend Emily Wyant), the evidence shows that it's time to lay this myth to rest, once and for all:
Cassie Bernall did not say "yes" when asked "do you believe in God".
Valeen Schnurr said "yes" when asked "do you believe in God".
Cassie Bernall was not martyred for her faith in God.
Cassie Bernall was murdered by a sociopath who also shot many other people before finally killing himself.
Cassie Bernall discovered faith in the last year of her life. She did say "yes" to God.
Cassie Bernall is not a martyr.
Cassie Bernall did not say "yes" and die.
Valeen Schnurr said "yes" and lived.
People did not initially intend to lie when reporting that Cassie said "yes, I believe in God".
Some people did, however, refuse to correct the impression when the facts proved that story wrong.
Cassie deserves to be remembered as a daughter whose life ended too soon. She deserves to be remembered as the person she was, a girl who lost her way for a while and who found it again.
But despite what some people--and unfortunately, some of those people are Christians--would want you to believe . . . no, she did not say yes.
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
Sunday, March 24, 2019
Shakespeare was right!
"First thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers." -- Henry VI.
I have never been more in sympathy with William Shakespeare than I am after six days of working on the transcript from a rather hot place down under. I'm debating at the moment whether it was from Gehenna, Tartarus, or Hades.
It consisted of 296 pages and 32 video clips.
Yes, you read that right. Thirty-two. (That sounds more daunting that it actually turned out to be. A new clip started whenever testimony started or one of the lawyers objected and they needed to conference with the judge. And I hate to disappoint all fans of Law and Order, but while the lawyers I listened to were very passionate about the side of the case they were arguing, they were also very respectful to each other at end when they were trying to figure out what the order of business was going to be next day. Anyone listening for a fight on any of the depositions I proof will be sadly disappointed.)
This is the first trial transcript I've ever proofed. Normally I proof deposition transcripts, where the lawyer for one side talks to a witness from the other side to get their side of the story. They will then use the information gleaned from those depositions to build a court case for trial. My depositions run the gamut from malpractice suits to car crashes to suits against nursing homes or assisted living centers.
This particular trial was a civil case that's been going on for some time.
Now, I know that the American legal system is usually a good system. I know that we need lawyers, and judges, and fair representations. And I know that proceedings must be put on the record, and since you have to have an accurate record, that is why you have court reporters, and scopists (the people who edit the raw notes from the court reporter) and proofers like me, who make sure everything is spelled, punctuated, and formatted properly.
My problem with this specific transcript was, specifically, the conferences with the judge.
More specifically, the parts of the conferences that I couldn't hear because the lawyers were talking in whispers.
The lawyers were talking in whispers because they were arguing their objections out of the hearing of the jury. I get that part and it's part of court procedure.
But their conferences were part of the record . . . and if I can't hear what they're saying, I can't just make something up and put it down!
By the end of the second or third day, out of frustration, I downloaded a free video/audio player with a sound booster, hoping that I could use that to clear up some of the things I couldn't hear.
It did help some. But even with the volume turned up as high as it would go, and even with a sound booster that supposedly boosted volume up to 125%, there were just some times I could not hear what I needed to hear.
(This is why I am against electronic recording replacing a real, live court reporter. What happens when the recording doesn't pick something up?)
I just finished this job a few minutes ago and sent it to the people I work for, saying that I did the best I could and that I have never been more in sympathy with Shakespeare's admonition, "first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."
(No lawyers were killed or harmed in the writing of this piece.)
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
I have never been more in sympathy with William Shakespeare than I am after six days of working on the transcript from a rather hot place down under. I'm debating at the moment whether it was from Gehenna, Tartarus, or Hades.
It consisted of 296 pages and 32 video clips.
Yes, you read that right. Thirty-two. (That sounds more daunting that it actually turned out to be. A new clip started whenever testimony started or one of the lawyers objected and they needed to conference with the judge. And I hate to disappoint all fans of Law and Order, but while the lawyers I listened to were very passionate about the side of the case they were arguing, they were also very respectful to each other at end when they were trying to figure out what the order of business was going to be next day. Anyone listening for a fight on any of the depositions I proof will be sadly disappointed.)
This is the first trial transcript I've ever proofed. Normally I proof deposition transcripts, where the lawyer for one side talks to a witness from the other side to get their side of the story. They will then use the information gleaned from those depositions to build a court case for trial. My depositions run the gamut from malpractice suits to car crashes to suits against nursing homes or assisted living centers.
This particular trial was a civil case that's been going on for some time.
Now, I know that the American legal system is usually a good system. I know that we need lawyers, and judges, and fair representations. And I know that proceedings must be put on the record, and since you have to have an accurate record, that is why you have court reporters, and scopists (the people who edit the raw notes from the court reporter) and proofers like me, who make sure everything is spelled, punctuated, and formatted properly.
My problem with this specific transcript was, specifically, the conferences with the judge.
More specifically, the parts of the conferences that I couldn't hear because the lawyers were talking in whispers.
The lawyers were talking in whispers because they were arguing their objections out of the hearing of the jury. I get that part and it's part of court procedure.
But their conferences were part of the record . . . and if I can't hear what they're saying, I can't just make something up and put it down!
By the end of the second or third day, out of frustration, I downloaded a free video/audio player with a sound booster, hoping that I could use that to clear up some of the things I couldn't hear.
It did help some. But even with the volume turned up as high as it would go, and even with a sound booster that supposedly boosted volume up to 125%, there were just some times I could not hear what I needed to hear.
(This is why I am against electronic recording replacing a real, live court reporter. What happens when the recording doesn't pick something up?)
I just finished this job a few minutes ago and sent it to the people I work for, saying that I did the best I could and that I have never been more in sympathy with Shakespeare's admonition, "first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."
(No lawyers were killed or harmed in the writing of this piece.)
Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.
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