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R. and I did the 3 mile loop today. Nice that it is warm enough and the sidewalks clear enough that this is neither painful nor treacherous. We got the dresser from A.'s room into the van for delivery to HG tomorrow morning.
We had lunch at Battle Road. Because of the storms, R. has been working Friday to make up missed snow days. We haven't been out to Friday lunch in a while. Nice to be back. I finally tried the chili. It is really good!
I decided to make an effort to track down my Uncle P.'s memoir which he wrote shortly before he died last spring. I found it in my email (eventually. . .), and started reading. After the first paragraph, I had to take a break. I tracked down just exactly what _is_ the relationship between Mennonites and Amish (not what he thought!), because I always forget. The Amish are Swiss and the Mennonites are Dutch (look, I know there are some Swiss heritage Mennonites, but I'm not taling about them) -- that much is trivial to retain (as my friend M.'s mother notes, all you have to do is look at their barns). And the Amish are followers of Ammann (my uncle spelled it wrong, but no big deal). And they obviously split off from _someone_ -- equally, I knew they didn't split off from the Mennonites because ... impossible. Nope. Split was from the Swiss Brethren (other anabaptists) and, crucially, the issue was that Ammann was part of / identified with / leader of a group that wanted to adopt the Mennonite Dordrecht Confession. So, _definitely not_ a split _away_ from Mennonites.
Oh, words. Words are found in the crucible of so many conflicts.
Anyway. My uncle _also_ asserts in his memoir that his oldest brother is 4 years older than the next guy down. Which is pure and unadulterated bullshit and I have _had it up to here_ with this. Enough! I called South Dakota Vital Records, had a brief chat, and sent away for the record. I'm going to prove this once and for all. The oldest boy was born in 1930, NOT 1932, and born in South Dakota, NOT Canada. I mean, come on, people. How hard is it to figure this stuff out?
Here are parts of the offending paragraph, lightly edited for anonymization purposes:
"In his late teens, not finding the wife he wanted and already an apostate, he drifted down
south of the border and ended up in Plankinton, S.D., and married my teen age mother []. ... My father took his bride back to his home community and quickly produced [oldest son] 4 years later G., etc."
It is _breathtaking_ how many easily provable errors there are in this very tiny number of words.
Teen aged mother-to-be went _north_ to Manitoba, where she got pregnant, presumably by my grandfather (altho I'm seriously open to the possibility that the actual sperm donor was someone else, possibly even one of his numerous brothers). They got married in Manitoba (provable! I have that document). Then they went to Plankinton, where the oldest boy was born (working on getting that document, but all public records that actually require a birth certificate indicate the same date) TOO SOON. Then they returned to Manitoba after a couple years have gone by, and the remaining three children are born as described.
So if I was hoping that my uncle knew the story of why my grandmother was in a fucking cult headquarters in Canada in the early part of the 20th century (best theory so far: mail order bride, courtesy one of my mother's cousins), well, fizzle.
I knew there had been a lot of lying going on about this timeline, but I foolishly thought it was just about the oldest boy's birth date. I hadn't realized that my mother's generation was sold a complete bill of goods about the order of operations. Wow.
After sending away for the informational copy of the birth certificate (I included a note asking them to please check both birth years), I settled in to read more of the memoir. In between the _last_ time I was actively working on genealogy and this round, I've been doing a ton of reading about personality disorders. It colors my perspective whenever I read a first person narrative or listen to someone tell a story. And alas, Uncle P., you have triggered a whole bunch of those sensors. Every time he hurts someone (is roughhousing and lands on his sister's head), commits a property crime (steals his brother's coin collection, spends the US money on coca cola and throws the collection of foreign currency away); commits a crime against a person (look, I take drinking and driving seriously, and I knew Uncle P. had been busted for that. But it hadn't occurred to me that as a man dying in his early 80s from respiratory problems, he'd still be bragging about how he cut a bitch, where the bitch in question was his brother and they were both pre-pubescent), it's pretty funny (to him) and he is extremely dismissive of any complaints. When he gives his collection of kids' books to his younger half bro, and half bro correctly sees their monetary value and realizes it? Still resenting that the half bro didn't properly appreciate the gift -- when he's in his 80s and dying. Uncle P.'s feelings are always underappreciated -- and everyone else's feelings are dismissed as unimportant.
I'd say Uncle P. had borderline, but the attempt to commit arson, and the glee he described slicing up his brother really causes me to draw back and think, maybe go with "personality disorder" and start adding descriptors.
While Uncle P. skips around the timeline a lot in the memoir (and clearly died before whipping it into whatever final shape he might have at one point had in mind -- and believe me when I say, I am sympathetic. Writing autobiographical material is HARD and completing it is harder), I was looking for a couple things in particular. One of which I did find -- I now have the details on how he lost his job driving a garbage truck, how they lost the mobile home, etc. The story about how my cousin developed special needs is ... look, it's right up there with people who think autism is caused by vaccines. Post hoc ergo propter hoc. Basic error, very understandable. (Who wants to think their genetics are deeply fried? I mentioned the cult, right? ETA: Not all Mennonites are in a cult. But my particular lot were definitely in a cult. They weren't "normal" Mennonites, for any definition of "normal" Mennonites. Lots of in-marriage there, but even if that weren't the case, remember, this man's mother was the product of a first cousin marriage, speaking of which, someone found the record and it is on ancestry! Super excited to have that date!) What I haven't found yet is any discussion of 1975.
Which I find pretty significant. For those who are not aware, 1975 was one of many dates selected by JWs for Armageddon. Never mind, neither the day nor the hour. Never mind, that every advent awaiter ever has been disappointed. This time was gonna be different because Bible Prophecy and 603 BC or wtf. And some complicated gyrations on the begats. AFTER the fact, the organization said, oh, hey, that wasn't us, that was _you_ and don't do it again! A lot of people left and it would be years before the numbers recovered. My parents -- to their credit -- went into this with their eyes open and deeply skeptical, and they made it clear to us that nothing should be expected to happen in 1975, other than in 1976 a lot of people were going to be leaving, and only the true believers would remain (so, if you've ever wondered about that post prediction failure double down, I can tell you what it is like from inside). I do not honestly recall what the extended family thought. And I had been hoping to find out, because I remember my father expressing some irritation on the topic through the years, without naming names.
Oh well! I suppose the absence of commentary might mean something all by itself, and I could ask my cousin -- he might remember.
My mother complained a lot about their mother preferring the boys, and having to do all their work. Well, Uncle P. complained a lot about having to do all the work and everyone else slacking. The cousin mentioned above (with the mail order bride theory) noted that when she knew my grandmother in their youth, grandma was quite lazy, and everyone in the family complained about it.
I swear, everyone in the early 20th century thought they were the only person who was pulling their weight. I wasn't there, so I don't have an opinion, but the next time someone worries in my vicinity about how we don't have to exert ourselves at all, what with cars and computers and automation and so forth, I'm going to go, once again, thank goddess that the machines are doing the work, because no one else wants to.
We had lunch at Battle Road. Because of the storms, R. has been working Friday to make up missed snow days. We haven't been out to Friday lunch in a while. Nice to be back. I finally tried the chili. It is really good!
I decided to make an effort to track down my Uncle P.'s memoir which he wrote shortly before he died last spring. I found it in my email (eventually. . .), and started reading. After the first paragraph, I had to take a break. I tracked down just exactly what _is_ the relationship between Mennonites and Amish (not what he thought!), because I always forget. The Amish are Swiss and the Mennonites are Dutch (look, I know there are some Swiss heritage Mennonites, but I'm not taling about them) -- that much is trivial to retain (as my friend M.'s mother notes, all you have to do is look at their barns). And the Amish are followers of Ammann (my uncle spelled it wrong, but no big deal). And they obviously split off from _someone_ -- equally, I knew they didn't split off from the Mennonites because ... impossible. Nope. Split was from the Swiss Brethren (other anabaptists) and, crucially, the issue was that Ammann was part of / identified with / leader of a group that wanted to adopt the Mennonite Dordrecht Confession. So, _definitely not_ a split _away_ from Mennonites.
Oh, words. Words are found in the crucible of so many conflicts.
Anyway. My uncle _also_ asserts in his memoir that his oldest brother is 4 years older than the next guy down. Which is pure and unadulterated bullshit and I have _had it up to here_ with this. Enough! I called South Dakota Vital Records, had a brief chat, and sent away for the record. I'm going to prove this once and for all. The oldest boy was born in 1930, NOT 1932, and born in South Dakota, NOT Canada. I mean, come on, people. How hard is it to figure this stuff out?
Here are parts of the offending paragraph, lightly edited for anonymization purposes:
"In his late teens, not finding the wife he wanted and already an apostate, he drifted down
south of the border and ended up in Plankinton, S.D., and married my teen age mother []. ... My father took his bride back to his home community and quickly produced [oldest son] 4 years later G., etc."
It is _breathtaking_ how many easily provable errors there are in this very tiny number of words.
Teen aged mother-to-be went _north_ to Manitoba, where she got pregnant, presumably by my grandfather (altho I'm seriously open to the possibility that the actual sperm donor was someone else, possibly even one of his numerous brothers). They got married in Manitoba (provable! I have that document). Then they went to Plankinton, where the oldest boy was born (working on getting that document, but all public records that actually require a birth certificate indicate the same date) TOO SOON. Then they returned to Manitoba after a couple years have gone by, and the remaining three children are born as described.
So if I was hoping that my uncle knew the story of why my grandmother was in a fucking cult headquarters in Canada in the early part of the 20th century (best theory so far: mail order bride, courtesy one of my mother's cousins), well, fizzle.
I knew there had been a lot of lying going on about this timeline, but I foolishly thought it was just about the oldest boy's birth date. I hadn't realized that my mother's generation was sold a complete bill of goods about the order of operations. Wow.
After sending away for the informational copy of the birth certificate (I included a note asking them to please check both birth years), I settled in to read more of the memoir. In between the _last_ time I was actively working on genealogy and this round, I've been doing a ton of reading about personality disorders. It colors my perspective whenever I read a first person narrative or listen to someone tell a story. And alas, Uncle P., you have triggered a whole bunch of those sensors. Every time he hurts someone (is roughhousing and lands on his sister's head), commits a property crime (steals his brother's coin collection, spends the US money on coca cola and throws the collection of foreign currency away); commits a crime against a person (look, I take drinking and driving seriously, and I knew Uncle P. had been busted for that. But it hadn't occurred to me that as a man dying in his early 80s from respiratory problems, he'd still be bragging about how he cut a bitch, where the bitch in question was his brother and they were both pre-pubescent), it's pretty funny (to him) and he is extremely dismissive of any complaints. When he gives his collection of kids' books to his younger half bro, and half bro correctly sees their monetary value and realizes it? Still resenting that the half bro didn't properly appreciate the gift -- when he's in his 80s and dying. Uncle P.'s feelings are always underappreciated -- and everyone else's feelings are dismissed as unimportant.
I'd say Uncle P. had borderline, but the attempt to commit arson, and the glee he described slicing up his brother really causes me to draw back and think, maybe go with "personality disorder" and start adding descriptors.
While Uncle P. skips around the timeline a lot in the memoir (and clearly died before whipping it into whatever final shape he might have at one point had in mind -- and believe me when I say, I am sympathetic. Writing autobiographical material is HARD and completing it is harder), I was looking for a couple things in particular. One of which I did find -- I now have the details on how he lost his job driving a garbage truck, how they lost the mobile home, etc. The story about how my cousin developed special needs is ... look, it's right up there with people who think autism is caused by vaccines. Post hoc ergo propter hoc. Basic error, very understandable. (Who wants to think their genetics are deeply fried? I mentioned the cult, right? ETA: Not all Mennonites are in a cult. But my particular lot were definitely in a cult. They weren't "normal" Mennonites, for any definition of "normal" Mennonites. Lots of in-marriage there, but even if that weren't the case, remember, this man's mother was the product of a first cousin marriage, speaking of which, someone found the record and it is on ancestry! Super excited to have that date!) What I haven't found yet is any discussion of 1975.
Which I find pretty significant. For those who are not aware, 1975 was one of many dates selected by JWs for Armageddon. Never mind, neither the day nor the hour. Never mind, that every advent awaiter ever has been disappointed. This time was gonna be different because Bible Prophecy and 603 BC or wtf. And some complicated gyrations on the begats. AFTER the fact, the organization said, oh, hey, that wasn't us, that was _you_ and don't do it again! A lot of people left and it would be years before the numbers recovered. My parents -- to their credit -- went into this with their eyes open and deeply skeptical, and they made it clear to us that nothing should be expected to happen in 1975, other than in 1976 a lot of people were going to be leaving, and only the true believers would remain (so, if you've ever wondered about that post prediction failure double down, I can tell you what it is like from inside). I do not honestly recall what the extended family thought. And I had been hoping to find out, because I remember my father expressing some irritation on the topic through the years, without naming names.
Oh well! I suppose the absence of commentary might mean something all by itself, and I could ask my cousin -- he might remember.
My mother complained a lot about their mother preferring the boys, and having to do all their work. Well, Uncle P. complained a lot about having to do all the work and everyone else slacking. The cousin mentioned above (with the mail order bride theory) noted that when she knew my grandmother in their youth, grandma was quite lazy, and everyone in the family complained about it.
I swear, everyone in the early 20th century thought they were the only person who was pulling their weight. I wasn't there, so I don't have an opinion, but the next time someone worries in my vicinity about how we don't have to exert ourselves at all, what with cars and computers and automation and so forth, I'm going to go, once again, thank goddess that the machines are doing the work, because no one else wants to.