I skyped in to a book club this evening, who was reading A City of Ghosts for October. It was really neat. They had good questions and were really nice about the book. And they seemed to like it, so that was awesome.
Technology is really amazing. I can sit in a room here and talk to folks in Michigan.
We live in the future.
Well, someone’s future.
I think I told y’all how my suspicion is that Luke Phillips is Asa Phillips’s son? And how I found that one of Barlow’s kids (Barlow being Luke’s grandson) was named either Harold Asa Phillips or Asa Harold Phillips (either way, he was called Harold)?
Well, it turns out that his son, Carroll, is still alive. Which, hey, bodes well for my dad because, until now, it appeared all of the Phillips men died before 65. But also reveals more weirdness in the Phillips family. My dad’s constant refrain is that the Phillipses weren’t that close. He, for instance, didn’t know about his dad’s Uncle Barlow until the Butcher was born and my Grandpa said he thought it was nice that my dad named his son for Barlow (the Butcher’s name is not Barlow, but is a name that starts like Barlow. Barlow Phillips will either be the name of my firstborn or my next pet).
But Carroll has the same name as my grandpa’s brother. So, how’s that for “not close”?
Anyway, my dad and my Uncle Bruce have been urging me to call Carroll, because he has a lot of the family history. But I feel weird about calling an 85 year old guy I don’t know. It just feels like that’s the start of a scam: “A woman claiming to be a distant relative calls asking strange questions.”
So, I wrote him a letter, asked if he knew who his father was named for, and told him he could either contact me, if he felt like answering OR he could just tell my uncle.
Fingers crossed. If I find out that Luke is Asa’s son, I’m going on a trip to two places–upstate New York and Connecticut. And I am getting my picture taken at the site of the former Phillipsville (founded by Asa’s son, Asa) in New York and in the Phillips cemetery, if it still exists, in Connecticut. So that my ancestors recognize me, I will practice being grouchy and unreasonable.
We went for our morning walk very slowly, though once we got over to Lloyd and had hard road beneath us, it felt good to walk and to get some things loosened up. The fog was creeping from the high field over the road into the low field. One thing that I really enjoy about living here is getting to observe morning fog. It’s pretty wild.
On our way home, the crows were squawking. I thought at us, but no, at the orange cat who was skulking around in a manner they didn’t appreciate.
And then, when we got back to the house, the new kitty hit everyone! As they were trying to get in the door, she stood at the top of the steps and bopped them on the head.
She didn’t even seem mad about it. Just “now’s the time when I smack you.” And now she’s sleeping above the orange cat on the couch.
Just a case of a man with a lot of power suggesting the TBI drop its investigation against him.
Put Tony Shipley on my list of “Most likely to have a political scandal that, in retrospect, everyone should have seen coming.”
Tiny Cat Pants 