Author Archives: Devon

Home After a Year and a Half – And Very Late, Part III.

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While at home, I offered to pick up Jared and Tyler (John’s sons) from the corner while it was raining. This was on February 4th. Jared got into the front with no problem. As I was talking to Jared about his day, Tyler put his instrument case into the car. When he sat it down, it sounded like the car door, so I started going forward. Unfortunately, he was not in and I ran over his foot. While he turned out later to be okay, I felt horrible about it. For some reason, if I do hurt one of my brothers’ offspring, it is usually Tyler.

While I was in Walker, I was able to visit with several of my aunts and my uncle. I talked to my Aunt Marie and her husband, Uncle Wayne several times. I also visited my Aunt Madge. She was always my favorite, because she was closer in age to Mom and Jacob, her son, is one of my best friends (if not the best). In addition to visiting, I recorded an hour or more of interviews with them. I was not able to do the same for my Aunt Gene or Aunt Billie, but I plan on doing it soon. Eventually, I will transcribe it and place it in the genealogy section of this site.

On the 13th, I went up to Greensburg to look at their information. It was too much and I didn’t have enough money to get what I wanted. I did copy Joseph Clark’s probate record. He is my 4th great-grandfather. His daughter, Martha Elizabeth Clark, married first John Wilkins and then Michael Milton (son of the one in Part 1). I have documented a little of their history here on this blog.

While in Greensburg, I ran across something posted on Ancestry by another descendent of Martha. It was a sale in 1829 of an 11 month old slave by Martha and her husband John Wilkins to her brother for $125. I spent some time on the drive home trying to think on how to explain this horrible situation. The bill of sale did not give much detail. While I whole-heartedly oppose slavery in all its varieties, I tend not to judge these people. I also feel very little need to be ashamed of my ancestors as Ben Affleck did recently. In my family tree, there are heroes and villains alike, and many of whom are both. I try to understand them in their own context and setting, rather than my own.

Eventually, I had to return back to Beijing. I enjoyed eating the food of my hometown (thus gaining a few extra pounds in the bargain). I was able to see some of my friends, most of my family and even a few co-workers. I breathed in the fresh air and relaxed. To be honest, it was a great vacation.

Home After a Year and a Half – And Very Late, Part II.

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A couple of things happened at home that were not pleasant. I found out from Dad that my cousin, Danny Fred, had been killed in a hit and run by a drunk driver in Rockland, Maine. He was the same age as me and had lived a difficult, but interesting life. I regret that I did not know him as well as I should. I think I may have talked to him once in the last twenty years. For example, I had no idea that he had children. The news story of his accident stated that he was walking on the side of the road with a friend and her daughter. Findagrave.com includes a very nice obituary for him.

Daniel Fred Cormier, 35, died tragically on the evening of January 30, after being struck in a hit and run car accident in downtown Rockland, Maine.

Daniel was born on August 29, 1979 in Augusta. He grew up in Alexander and was, as his brother Patrick described him, a “nomad” in adulthood, traveling throughout the country, touching lives and making friends everywhere he roamed. Living for extended periods in California, Florida and Pennsylvania in addition to Rockland, where he resided for the past several years.

As a boy and young man he showed surprising natural talents. As one friend recalled, Daniel as a fifth grader playing chess against a local competitive chess player visiting Alexander School and winning against the man not only once, but three straight times. Later, Daniel became a proficient self-taught guitar player.

He had a lifelong knack for making people laugh. Daniel’s green eyes would light up as he told jokes and enjoyed the jokes of others.

He is survived by his mother Mary and father Danny of Calais; brother Patrick of Alexander; sister Anita and nephew Austin of Portland; and his children including daughter Winter, 14, and son Christian, 3.

*Update: My cousin Patrick has a news story on Facebook where the man filed a motion for release due to police abuse. I know I need to forgive, but a part of me clings hard to old feelings of retribution.

In addition, an associate of John (my oldest brother), Timmy Garrison, was killed up in Wiggins, MS. He was the local distributor for Woodmizer, which is the brand of John’s woodmill. There was a lot of speculation on Facebook and other places online, but eventually they arrested the his wife, her purported lover, and the lover’s cousin who they hired to come up and kill him.

Here is his obituary. I met him one visit up there in the company of John while on some business. There are some messed up people in this world.

Home After a Year and a Half – And Very Late, Part I.

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This post is about two months or so late. Any perusal of my blog would inform a person that I am not a proficient blogger. Yet, I am resolved to some improvement.

On January 14, I returned home to the US and was picked up by 2nd brother, Jason. It was glorious being home after a year and ½. Jason was and is going through some tough times, so I was happy to hang out with him. He was building a mobile tent platform on the top of a trailer. This was extensively for camping and traveling with his new Jeep. He has now fallen into that bottomless pit of Jeep owners, started by my cousin Jacob. I didn’t not have the heart to tell him that I hate camping. To me, it seems mainly consists of being hungry, cold and wet. These feelings are part of the reason I live in a city with 14 million people. However, I was happy to help him because I love him and that is what he is interested in. To be honest, though, neither one of us are competent carpenters. Ok, neither competent nor carpenters, which is why this project required repeated trips to Home Depot.

I also talked him into a trip to Baldwin Co., Alabama. I think we both had a good trip as we skirted around the east bank of the Tensas River, looking for the old homestead of our ancestor Michael Milton. We also went to Bay Minette where I picked up several documents that I had previously lost track of a couple of years before. One of these was a copy of a bill of sale from 1801. I was allowed to hold it in my hands, which was awesome but a little nerve-wracking. I had some copies made for our uncle, George Milton, as he had never seen these before. Uncle George has been the principle genealogist of the Milton family for over 50 years. I merely stand on the shoulders of a giant.

On Sunday the 18th, I drove Morgan’s car (Jason let me borrow it as she is away at school in Hawaii) to Doug’s house. It felt good to drive. I hung out with Doug (my 3rd brother) for a couple of days. We went to the genealogy section at the Jefferson Parish Library. I found a book there that lists a marriage document for Michael Milton at the Mobile Archdiocese Archives. I eventually paid $10 each for this and a baptism certificate for William and Adelaide Milton. We did have plans to drive out to S. Carolina to visit Jacob, but it did not come to pass due to a sickness and poor logistics on my part. Still, I was very happy to see Dougie. He told me he is planning to have a surgery sometime in the future, something that I much more hesitant about any surgery after the death of our Aunt Carol.

I then drove home to see Dad and John and other family members. On Friday the 23rd, I went up to Woodville, MS. I was researching my 5th great-grandparents, Barnabas and Margaret Hux Partin. I found quite a bit up there, including the marriage document of my 3rd great-grandparents, John and Emily Partin Moore. The courthouse was quite nice and I enjoyed the area, as it was my first time there.

About 4 or 5 days into the trip, I had to switch from the guest bedroom (my old room) to John’s travel trailer. The bed that Dad & Darlene (my stepmother) have in the guestroom killed my back, causing me to walk like an old man in need of a cane. Living in the trailer was frankly great, as I have come to greatly appreciate my privacy. Also, it allowed me to experience life in a small place. For the last couple of months, I had been watching Tiny House Nation on TV. I think that this movement to smaller space is something I would like to try out and the trailer gave me an opportunity.

Giving Thanks

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It is only during the holiday season that I feel a few tinges of homesickness. My childhood memories of Thanksgiving are filled with happiness. Separated from my family, I long for those days of idyllic remembrances. They probably were not as idyllic as I suppose, coming from a family where I am the baby of four boys. My mother, strong and patient as she was, was often irate over our youthful rambunctiousness. I remember that as well, though the years since her passing have caused it to fade a bit. Still, the joy of this season remains and I wish to share my gratitude. This expression, while heartfelt, is often left by me unspoken.

Therefore, I am especially grateful for:

My family. Despite their flaws, they have contributed greatly to my identity and sense of self. They have had many ups and downs this year, something I suspect that will continue into the future. As they supported me during my times of difficulty, I wish to be a pillar for them as well even though they are so far away.

My many friends. I think of you more than you might suppose. Time and distance may separate us, but I love and wish you all the best.

My job. I enjoy teaching although I remain skeptical that I have any talent for it.

My students. They are some of the most hard-working people I have met.

My Mother. The word love seems too mundane for the feelings that I have, nor does it fully capture the totality of my loss. Yet until such a time that English creates a word capable of capturing the intensity of my heart, I am left with only this: Maman, I love and miss you.

Finally, my Lord. Without the suffering and death of the most innocent, my desired eternal reward would be denied purely on the basis of my accumulated mistakes. However, I am able to gain both immortality by His resurrection and eternal life through His encompassing grace. Gratitude, in addition to love, seems too insufficient for expressing this.

Becoming Barzenick

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This past Wednesday I taught my first American history class to undergraduates at Beihang. I knew that after lunch most of them would be quite tired. This was also aided by the fact that the classroom was sweltering and the students are English majors, not history. It was the first lesson of my first time teaching this course, so I was a little nervous. As I mentioned in another post, when I am nervous I tend to babble (as well as stutter). While teaching, I started to listen to myself and I noticed that I said “ok” and “right” frequently. It was so frequent that if my students had smuggled alcohol into the classroom for a drinking game based on my usage of these two words, they would all have died from alcohol poisoning half way through.

The reason I bring this up is that I recall a time when I too was a student, a sophomore in college just as my students are today. The class was music appreciation, taught by Prof. Barzenick. While this class was about the appreciation of music, my feelings were anything but. My tastes at the time were limited to country and 70’s rock. Through the lens of maturity, I must admit that I was pretty one dimensional when it came to music. Some may still believe this is true. Despite my past disinterest, I actually learned quite a bit from that class. For example, I was recently able to impress a friend or two with the knowledge that Monteverdi produced perhaps the earliest opera. This despite the fact that I cannot tell Monteverdi from Mozart if my life depended on it.

What I remember most about his class, however, is the reason for this post. He used the phrase “you get the idea” after just about everything he said. Bored from tinkling pianos and fat sopranos, I started to doodle a comic book based on this concept, titled Death by Barzenick. In it, Prof. Barzenick died in myriad ways, stating after each time “you get the idea.” I tortured this poor man in ink for an entire semester, although he never knew of it. I had no animosity toward him, personally or professionally, but it was what my somewhat morbid tastes at the time swayed toward. At the time, I thought it vastly amusing. Yet now, listening to myself teach, I was struck by the thought, “I am Barzenick!” I initially panicked at that and resolved right then to not use those two words the rest of the class. This resolution lasted about two or three minutes. Since I seem unable to discipline myself, I should get a t-shirt made, even if no one understands the reference.

My Memory of September 11th

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911There are very few moments in my life where I remember exactly where and what I was doing. I am sure that is true for most of us. On September 11, 2001, the clarity of the moment has remained with me for 13 years. I suspect it will ever be so until I either lose mental capacity or pass away. On that day, I was out working in northern California as a missionary for my Church. I was 21 months into my mission and beginning to the inevitable countdown of when I would return once more to “the world.”

I had been sent to the Placerville and Diamond Springs wards to work with my MTC roommate, Elder Welles from Georgia. We were living in an apartment with another two missionaries. For several weeks Elder Welles and I planned to go to the Buttercup Pantry restaurant in Placerville for all you can eat pancake breakfast. Strictly speaking, our schedule never allowed this because it was eat, exercise and study until leaving at 10 or so for work every day. That day, however, we bent the rules and left our apartment early. Two southern boys in California eating an all you can eat pancake breakfast. My memory of those pancakes were that they were disappointing.

While eating, I overheard the remarks of a man at the next table. He was an older man, a veteran, as indicated by VFW cap he wore. He said to his companion that this was the worst day in American history, even worse than Pearl Harbor. I looked at Welles, got up and asked the man what he was talking about. I still remember his exact reply, “New York has been bombed.” It was 9:54 in the morning, Pacific Time. At the time, we didn’t understand his exact meaning. We quickly paid for our now even more tasteless pancakes and rushed home.

Upon entering the apartment, one of the other missionaries, Elder Felder, was on the phone and said, “Elders, Salt Lake is looking for you.” While he was being overly dramatic, it is true that we should have been in our apartment at the time. Our breaking this rule had later repercussions immaterial to this post, but it did cause quite a bit of anxiety for our office. Because we were cut off from communications, we still did not really know what was going on. We knew that US would be going to war over this, but were unsure what it would mean to us personally. Naturally, the speculation was thick. Around 2 pm, Elder Cho, our district leader, called a meeting and informed us of the day’s events. For the next two days, we broke another rule by going to a local member’s house and watching the news. I do not regret that, as my mind had been diverted from the work. It took several days to get back into the missionary mindset, set aside our collective tragedy, and finish the task the Lord had set out for me.

A Poem – A Little Perspective

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In high school, I often wrote poetry. Some of it seemed decent at the time but it was really bad in retrospect. I wanted to try again, having gained experience and a larger vocabulary. I know that it is still bad, but what I write comes from my heart. This is one is about birth (today is my birthday) and is dedicated to my Maman, who is both with me and not with me. ‘Till I see you again.

A Little Perspective

White and cold*
Hands extracting.
Wrenched from home
Uncaring of my tears.

Pulled, prodded, pricked
Weighed and measured
Is that all I am?
A use for ruler and scale.

Where is the love?
Slapped and cut.
*whispering* Even down there.
This world harsh and bright.

They said out was better
Than in. Here was better
Than there. Yet, I cry.
Because they lied.

I want to go home.

*This explains my lifelong fear of white people.

 

Foreign Service Test

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I had the FSOT (Foreign Service Officer Test) on June 14. It was an interesting experience, as the test was at the Beijing Embassy. This was actually my first time to go to the US embassy, even though I have lived in Beijing for 3 years in total. I went to the consulate in Chengdu once, but this was much different. It still has the same intense security, both Chinese and American, but the embassy is so much nicer inside. I guess that is to be expected since it is only 8 years old and cost us $434 million. Anyway, I had the test with about 15 or so others. Since Beijing only offers a single testing day, my reservation was moved to that time – 8:30 a.m. At the time, I thought I did rather well on the job knowledge section and the English section, but felt uneasy about the biographical section. Also, I was not finished with my essay and knew that part could definitely trip me up.

I finally received my grade. Here is the breakdown:

Job Knowledge:                       61.7
Biographical Questionnaire:    42.65
English Expression:                 59.56
Multiple Choice Total:               163.91
Your Essay Score:                    5

Because I scored above 154 on the total, my essay was graded. I needed at least a 6 out of 12 to pass to the next round, the PNQ (Personal Narrative Questions). So, as you can see, I failed. I looked at a website that listed results from 139 test takers in 2013. My Job Knowledge was quite above the average, about 5 points. My English was also above average by 5 points. My biographical section was 15 points below the average. The average essay score was 7.28. So, I know what killed me.

Writing seems to be the bane of my test taking experience. I always thought of myself as a decent writer, but this test has dealt a couple of blows to my ego. This is the second FSOT that I have participated in. I passed the first test with a similar multiple choice score, but with an essay score of 6. I then failed the PNQ, which also involves a great deal of writing.

Although I have to wait another year, I am not giving up on this. This is partly due to my inherent obstinateness, having aptly earned the title “pigheaded” in the past. Also, this is a job that I desire to do. I have always wanted to perform service for my country. When I was young, this desire revolved around military service. As my physical limitations (weight and eyesight) denied me that, I am looking for other opportunities. I will continue to do so, because I feel that this career has a meaningful purpose.

For the next test, however, I know what I must focus on.

Horseback Riding

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Last Saturday, I went on a horseback riding excursion with three of my friends – Tammy, Bret, and Bao. We rode a bus out to the nearby countryside. There were several activities that we could have participated in, but we were there for the horses. This was the second time I was on a horse. The first time was in Mongolia in 2007. I don’t know if I can say that I enjoyed then. I also cannot say that I enjoyed it this time either.

Luckily, my friends made it enjoyable even if the riding was not. We had disputes with the owners over money and guides. One of the guides kept asking me for money. Silly man. I don’t give out money to just anyone. The other guide leading Bret and Tammy was drunk, even though it was only about 1 pm. He at least was on a horse. Bao and I were led by our guide, who was on foot. Several things irritated Bao about this. First, she was an accomplished rider back in Germany and felt that the guide was unnecessary. Second, she also felt that the horses had been taken care of indifferently. Third, she had to listen to me talk the entire time.

I talk a lot when I am nervous and/or in socially awkward situations. Bao was very patient with me and just let me blabber. I was very nervous and afraid. Not because of the horse, but because I have a fear of heights. A deathly fear. A fear that emerges even when I step on a chair. Ok, horses kind of freak me out too. But, I will not be kept down by my fears. I have plans to bungee jump and skydive one day. A small step though it may seem to someone else, I got on the beasty’s back and rode a little bit. Then I got off and walked, because God gave me feet for a reason. My friends were able to gallop about for a while.

All in all, it was a pleasant experience. Here are some pictures:

Me riding a horse.devbao2 horsegang

Bret and Tammy with their intoxicated guide.