Last week it was Veteran's Day.

And I got to thinking how the last generation showed so much more outward evidence of patriotism than most of those who are my age. My mother told me that my uncle sent my dad an email last week, saying that while he'd often thanked soldiers on the street for their service to our country, he'd couldn't remember ever thanking my dad - his older brother. This year he expressed his thanks to my dad for his service in the Army, and to my mom for her support of him.

My dad is the kind of man who never fails to stand for the national anthem. He's the kind of man who feels a deep sense of loyalty for the flag, and respect for military uniform. I remember him scolding me once for not paying attention and putting my hand over my heart during the "Star Spangled Banner" - and it stands out in my mind as a youthful moment when I recognized that my father held the symbols of his country in high regard.

Then I heard this song on the radio a couple of days ago that seemed to personify my dad. Allan Jackson's "Smalltown Southern Man".

And, in tribute to my father, I wanted to share the lyrics here:

Born the [eldest] son of a farmer
And a small town Southern man
Like his daddy's daddy before him
Brought up workin' on the land
Fell in love with a small town woman
And they married up and settled down
Natural way of life if you're lucky
For a small town Southern man

First there came four pretty daughters
For this small town Southern man
Then a few years later came another
A boy, he wasn't planned
Seven people livin' all together
In a house built with his own hands
Little words with love and understandin'
From a small town Southern man

Chorus:
And he bowed his head to Jesus
And he stood for Uncle Sam
And he only loved one woman
He was always proud of what he had
He said his greatest contribution
Is the ones you leave behind
Raised on the ways and gentle kindness
Of a small town Southern man

Calloused hands tell the story
For this small town Southern man
He gave it all to keep it all together
And keep his family on his land
Like his daddy, years wore out his body
Made it hard just to walk and stand
You can break the back
But you can't break the spirit
Of a small town Southern man

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

Put it down dude. Seriously, you know who you are. I went to camp with you. I went on a lot of church retreats with you. And some how, you even ended up living on the same floor as me freshman year of college.

I get it, you own an acoustic guitar. You put stickers of Africa and of bands I have never heard on the outside of your guitar case. You have an interesting guitar strap. You are moody and introspective and somehow when you combine that guitar with the three songs you know and a campfire, every girl on the planet wants to sit near you. Are you kidding me?

Back when I was in high school you knew the simple chords to Poison’s song, “Every rose has it’s thorn,” and Bon Jovi’s “Bed of Roses,” or maybe a few chords to some Nirvana, you know, their early stuff. But I have to believe the newer version of you has updated the material. What are you singing now, Coldplay’s “Yellow” or maybe Dashboard Confessional’s “Screaming Infidelities?” Maybe you are doing something by the Jonas Brothers now or Maroon 5? Or, God forbid, Jack Johnson. What, you’re actually singing U2’s song, “One?”

You are killing me.

I know what you are doing. You have brilliantly found a way to carry around the thing you are best at. (And I use the word “best” loosely.) I am very jealous. What if painting was the thing I was best at? Would it be OK if I just started carrying around a canvas and an easel and then when girls said, “Do you know how to paint?” I could casually reply, “Oh, this thing? I guess I forgot I had it with me.” Or maybe I was really good at pottery and could carry around a kiln and a wheel like in the movie Ghost. Because that’s what you do.

Or maybe, just maybe, I didn't get the memo when I was 5 that taking 15 years of violin lessons wasn't going to be the ticket out of dorkville. You can't casually walk around with a Suzuki violin under your chin.

It doesn't work. Chicks don't dig it.

You pretend that you just happened to have the guitar with you. Like the whole thing was just accidental. I know it’s not though. I know.

Your instrument isn’t even in tune but that doesn’t matter does it dude with the guitar? And what really gets me is that you’re going to play a song at church this weekend and people are going to tell you that you should be a worship leader. Hearing that is going to make you start wearing product in your hair and rocking a white belt and talking about being vegan.

Maybe you'll even break a string while you're playing. No worries. Not only are you musical (isn't that enough?) but you also have witty pre-planned comments about breaking a string. Even I laugh when you say them. Arrgh.

Do you know what happens when you break a violin string? Girls don't swoon. They leave. Mothers look away. Fathers pretend they don't know you.

And when I walk to class you’ll be sitting on the steps of the dorm with a girl that is way too pretty to talk to me, and you'll be softly cooing, “How great is our God.” And when she asks you, “Where did you learn to play like that?” You’ll respond by slowly tapping your chest and saying, “I just listen to my heart.”

You are my archenemy dude with the guitar at camp.

I am going to steal your guitar and replace it with those big hand bells and the white gloves the rest of us had to wear in High School.

Let’s see how easy it is to get girls to go on dates when all you have to play is a gigantic bell.

----

Posted in good humor :)

Original content by "Jon" at: http://stuffchristianslike.net/2008/07/332-that-dude-with-the-guitar-at-camp/
Lightly edited by Albert Handal.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

After visiting the Scottish Highland Games, I did a little research on the tartans in our family's clans. Here's what I found:

Matheson Weathered

Matheson Hunting


Matheson Ancient


Matheson Ancient Hunting


MacDougall Ancient

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

Today we went to the Stone Mountain Highland Games 2009 - a festival of Scottish clans and culture.


I knew that there was Scottish history in my family's ancestry, but I though it was just on my mother's side. At the Games I discovered that we have roots in three different clans:

Clan MacDougall (my maternal grandmother's maiden name)

Clan Donald (my mother's maiden name was McGee, a derivative of MacKay - which is part of the Donald clan)

Clan Matheson (my dad's last name is Matthews, which is part of the Matheson clan)

We also have roots in the English families of Ford and Pickett on my dad's side, and Cherokee Indian on mom's side. But the bulk of family ancestry is Scottish.

It's a great feeling to have more defined ancestral roots.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

Some of you who read my blogs have laughed at the idea when I've suggested that there might be legislation being passed that would allow you or your kids to be forcefully vaccinated against your will.

For those who scoff, watch this:

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

...1949::the beginning...

They said that I was born in my grandaddy’s house. The same house, I suppose, where my daddy lived until he married my mother, and then a little more. That’s the house that blew away in a tornado a year or two later.

I don’t remember it.

After the tornado, all that was left was a chicken house and a pitcher pump and a few odd boards and planks that were used later to build a chicken brooder house or maybe as fencing.

They were farmers, my daddy and grandaddy. The land was owned by Miss Annie Sue MacDonald. She lived north of McCrory, toward Newport. I can’t recall the name of her little community. I’m sure it’ll come to me later!

Grandaddy rented the place, 80 acres I think, giving 25% of what the crops made as his payment. He grew cotton, soybeans and of course corn for the horse and mule feed.

They said also that I was born in late October of 1949. And that’s what my birth certificate says too, so I guess they were right. They said that I was born early and kind of puny. They had to take me to a hospital somewhere and put me in an incubator for a while. But I don’t remember any of that either.

My first recollections are very faint and brief. Daddy and Mother and me had moved from Arkansas to California. Gonna make our fortunes in the Golden State like so many Southerners before us. Two of my mother’s sisters and their families had already moved out there.

But we didn’t stay long - only about a year or so. Just long enough to find my little brother, Butch, out there. His real name is Harland Hiram. That second name is after Daddy. But I really don’t remember Butch in California.

All that I can recall about California is playing in the sand outside someone’s house and getting bit by big ants. That, and Daddy drove a Jeep around where he worked. It had a small box extension on it and I got to ride in it, at least one time. I learned years later that all this happened close to the city of Indio in Southern California.

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.

Okay, I know I've been slack on blogging here. Forgive me!

So I'm starting a new little series on here based on my dad's memories of his childhood. He's been writing them down to preserve that generation of family history for the future generations. I've been typing them up, finding photos to illustrate them, and putting them in a little book.

But some of the stories are so good - I have to share them! So I'm going to post them here story by story for you to enjoy as well!

Looking forward to your comments! :)

© Sarah K. Asaftei, 2009 unless otherwise sourced. Use allowed by express written permission only.