Ear Worm

Years ago, my dad and Uncle Sam ventured into the entrepreneurial world and together had a Cities Service gas station. I don't remember too much about it. It was very close to home and we could walk to it. About the same time, we had a portable record player. Hi-Fi, it was. It may have come as some promotion at the gas station. I can't really remember but that gas station and the record player share the same page in my memory book.

There were a few LP records, too. One was the Beavers, a knock off of Alvin and the Chipmunks, maybe. And a collection of Spanish tunes, one in particular that is forever in my brain. Even while writing this I can bring it back to life along with the mental video of my feeble attempts at traditional Spanish dance. Later, Beatles albums were added to my list of favorites.

In high school, the family graduated to a stereo although the kind encased in a cabinet like a piece of furniture. No genuine equalizer but there were speakers and we could adjust the treble and bass levels. Add some headphones and I could be at the concert, listening to Carole King and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young as I lay on the living room floor.

All of those records, together with a few years of piano lessons (enough to learn to read music) and the grade school chorus and church choir were the beginnings of my formal introduction to music and song that wasn't a jump rope ditty or childhood game.

More than eleven years ago, after the death of my husband Steve, I embarked on a different musical journey, taking up the Celtic or folk harp. Why the harp? A woman (she is now a very good friend) played her small harp at Sunday mass and it was beautiful and different.

What began as something to keep me busy, evolved into much more. I was very lucky to find a gifted teacher not too far from my house. A new world of workshops and traditional music introduced me to many wonderful musicians of all ages, ranging from enthusiastic students to accomplished performers. I hopped on a musical bus ride that just keeps on going.

I believe there is no question that certain talents are natural gifts that not everyone shares. I don't consider myself a natural musician. I am getting better at learning by ear but it does not come easily to me. My sister, on the other hand, has a much better ear than me. In my father's family, there was his brother, Uncle Harry, who was said to always have a guitar in his hands and Aunt Nancy's granddaughter, Kelley, is gifted with a beautiful singing voice. On my mother's side, no musicians that I know of although cousin Mike, in Colorado, does a mean karaoke. I myself, still like to sing, though not too well and like many, it is usually a private concert in my car.

Even though music doesn't come naturally to me, I do believe that I am musical. Anyone who has seen me dancing to the oldies with my sisters can see there is at least some innate rhythm, probably my primitive DNA drumming it's way to the surface. Musicality is something we all share in this universe. Many people may not have been gifted with a musical talent, but the fact that they are camping out in a line to buy concert tickets is proof to me that music speaks to them, that they enjoy the melody, the lyrics and the beat. They are indeed, musical.

So, I am enjoying my bus journey with the harp, happy to be a wee bit musical and to dance and sometimes even sing out loud, to the beat of the ear worm, that tune stuck in my head.

Happy Thanksgiving

More than two weeks ago, in the wee morning of a Sunday, the hours in the day fell back to standard time. There are many who dislike the shortening days of the season but I like a brighter morning and I welcomed the time change.

With the lessening of daily sunshine comes the reminder that winter is soon is on the horizon.
But it's really difficult to think about being ready for cold weather and the coming holidays when we are enjoying an extended and beautiful Indian summer. There's is always a to-do list that needs attention and I find myself eager to tackle those jobs that have me outside and sometimes those more important indoor ones must wait.

And I don't feel guilty any more in leaving things undone, having learned that enjoying a walk with a friend is one of those chores on that to-do list.

I am thankful.

Wishing everyone a peaceful and happy Thanksgiving.

What's In A Name?

Hoping to unravel a little more of the ancestors ownership of land, this morning I found myself revisiting mdlandrec.net, Maryland's online land record search. This is great resource for anyone doing genealogy or if you are just interested in how your neighborhood came to be named.

Today, was a look at the Howard County records. Unlike Baltimore County, they do not have copies of the actual records online but they do provide information on where to find it. I think the county's Historical Society can access the database and you can also make a visit to the Maryland archives in Annapolis.

It's apparent that there was no system of addresses like street names, etc. yet in place. And, you could name your piece whatever you desired, it seems. I am sorry to say, I completely lost all sensibility while reading some names of the land parcels. Here is a sampling from the years 1670 to 1771. Actual names are in boldface.

Doughreaghan Manor, the manorial estate of Charles Carroll, seems to be at the top of the acquisition list, with 10,000 and 7,000 acres and Charles didn't stop there, acquiring other pieces of property, miniscule in comparison to the home place.

Some bore place names, memories of the old country, I think,  like Edinburgh, Caledonia (at 11638 acres, a joint effort of individuals to keep up with the Carrolls, perhaps) and even Lapland. The owners were a learned lot too, with To Be Or Not To Be, Terra Eacultabalis (my high school Latin fails me) and Grecian Siege. A bit of religion is thrown in with Ash Wednesday  and you prayed that your Mount Gilboa was a Mount Hope and definitely not a Mount Misery. Another one  has me thinking it could be an epitaph, I Have Been A Great While At Rest. The royals and nobles are remembered too, Good Will To His Lordship and Fredericksburgh.

Was there a story behind Find Out If You Can, Molly's Delight, Sally's Chance,  Robinson's Mistake or Dorsey's Advantage and Joshua's Loss? (Did someone gamble unwisely at cards?) Could there be a favored nephew remembered fondly with Unkle's Good Will? And then there is the amateur genealogist's dream, September 14, 1739 I Was Born John Hammond, Son Of John.

It was definitely a struggle back in the 1700's with Poor Man's Beginning at just 100 acres. Life could be full of Disappointment, Little Worth or even Worthless, with Poverty Discovered while dealing with Strife and much Hard Grubbing, and all was easily Lost By Neglect. It was a life that was Hard To Get And Dear Paid For, Costly  and Watts Left or What is Left  could be Anything at 56 acres which was certainly better than Something at 26 acres and Fire Tongs.

And you hoped to maybe have good neighbors if you lived at Ill Neighborhood, Neighbors Spite and Dunghill Ground Thicket, but it could be a wee bit uncomfortable if you lived at Pork Plenty If No Thieves and the farm next door was Chandlers Slaughter.

But not all was doom and gloom as you Look Sharp and the Dispute Ended with Peace or at least, Titt For Tatt  and you could be Content with five acres instead of seeking more Contentment with 350 acres, basking in the Silence of your Beautiful Croft and your Second Addition to Snowden's Cowpen.

In Conclusion, I can only say you are probably glad I have reached The Finish of today's rambling.