Taping my eylids open

My new year’s resolution this year is to figure out a way to lget my son to stopop typing the tkheyr4

keys while I’mukl tryingtyk to tyjtygyfrp type.

Okay, so like, my dad calls up my husband all the time asking for technical support on his computer.  This is what he says “The thing isn’t working with the thing.  The window is open but it’s not open, the thing keeps on spinning and spinning! It’s not keying up and it’s just sitting there and spinning”

It has driven my husband crazy for years, and so the job of ID10T tech support has been passed along to my son, who thinks it’s just hysterical.  The sad thing is, I would probably sound the same way if I didn’t have tekkies living with me.  Anyway, I told my dad that maybe he shouldn’t have a computer.

The computer is really for my mom.  She is totally obsessed with the family tree, and spends night and day tracking our ancestors back to the Leprechauns of Ireland.  The last time she came to visit, I had a sudden relapse of narcolepsy while she told me the details, which doesn’t have one single leprechaun or interesting bit of information or beneficial words of wisdom.  She wasn’t a bit amused when I asked her if we had pirates with buried treasure somewhere.  She doesn’t have a sense of humor, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was going door to door asking people to sign a petition making” bad jokes” against the law.  She’s a prohibitionist, you know.

So anyway, she just spends all day long finding out the names of people who are related and who they were married to .  That’s all.  Geez Louise. It’s getting bad, now.  It turns out that I’m not related to Robert E. Lee after all.  It turns out that everyone called him uncle.

I can’t believe that the woman spends all her spare time finding out lame boring details about a bunch of boring schmucks.  I think I can do better, and spend a lot less time.

Here we go.

This is my great great grandmother, Beulah Higganbotham.

Her parents wanted her to marry   this guy:

So there she was, standing at the alter of an old country church, ready to marry a nice young chap whose father was Chadwick Oleo, the owner of the biggest lard company this side of the Red River.  If she married him, she would be rich, well to do, and considered “old money.”  It was awesome, amazing, and the best thing that ever happened to her.

But it didn’t happen because the church doors flew open and in rode this guy on a horse.  He trotted up to the bride, kidnapped her and they rode off into the wide blue yonder, never to be seen or heard from again.

I didn’t actually make up that story.  My son’s godfather told me that story of his own great great grandmother.  But he can’t tell that story himself, you know why?

Because he’s dead.

I do have a new year’s resolution: I am going to figure out a way to grow a watermelon and a cantaloupe that doesn’t taste like the bottom of my dad’s sweaty feet.  See.  I can be serious.

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