Over at Feministe, check it out.
The other night, I was home alone and the back door slammed shut. I freaked out, because I was, as I said, home alone. I listened quietly to hear for the Butcher. I let out a tentative “Hello?” and then I waited for my vicious killer of a dog to rush whoever would dare enter my home.
She chose to hide, first behind me, and then in the closet.
I armed myself with an empty bottle of rum and my cell phone and proceeded to creep around the house and call the Butcher furtively to try to figure out if that was him. And did the dog come along and protect me?
Then yesterday, we had a tornado warning, which I missed out on because I was sitting here enjoying the thunder and did not have any local media on, and did she try to herd me into the closet where we might be safe?
Did she even make any attempt to eat the giant moth the other day?
Is it so wrong to want a dog who has your back, not hides behind it?
I know I thought I’d found Bradstreets on both Mom and Dad’s sides of the family tree, but I’ll be damned if I can find my mom’s Bradstreets again. There comes a point back when Geneology.com is so unweildy and you can’t really tell any more who is related to whom. I mean, you can in the particular, but if you’re looking to see if you’ve got Bradstreets on both sides of the family tree, you really need a roadmap for sifting through thousands of people.
It’d be nice if they had some way to just ask “which of my parents does this person belong to?”
Anyway, I found Anne on my dad’s side:
Me–Dad–Avis–Sadie Sanborn–Abraham Sanborn–Sarah Dearborn–Josiah Dearborn–T Hutchinson–Theodate Morrill–Joanna Dow–Mary Mussey–Joseph Mussey–Bridget Bradstreet–Ann Dudley Bradstreet
I was all excited and asked the Butcher, “You remember that poem about the house burning down?” And he said, “I didn’t read in school.” And thus ended my thrill, because I had no one to share it with.