Ankle-biter express (write of passage number fifty-five)

 "Oh, no-no-no-no-no...."  I breathed, gazing in horror out the bus window.  Two days in a row, I'd escorted Demeter to medical appointments, the latter being a dental appointment that lasted over an hour.

We'd been thrilled to just catch a bus bound for home, securing courtesy seats with a gap to keep Demeter's walker out of the aisle on a relatively uncrowded bus for a late weekday afternoon.  

Not quite this bad

The bus turned up the incline on Burdett Avenue, and lined up at the stop outside the Starbucks were two dozen seven-year-olds in day-camp teeshirts and yellow vests, intending to return to the community centre with a grand total of three supervisors.  In the grand summer tradition, exactly one supervisor went to the back of the bus with the youngsters, while the other two stayed at the front of bus, calling directions while the kids hung ineffectually from the dangling loops intended for adult standees, and clutched at Demeter's walker.  

I caught the eye of one of the minders and said, firmly:  "My mother has a walker.  She will be getting out at Cook and Fairfield."

"Cook and Fairfield," the minder repeated, a little dazedly.

Looking with some despair at the aisle, a sea of little yellow vests, I rang the bell just after the Vancouver stop and raised my voice:  "Lady with a walker getting out at Fairfield and Cook!"

I could hear the message being passed to the front, where at least half a dozen adults, who had been unfortunate enough (or foolish enough) to board behind the ankle-biters, were crammed beyond the yellow safety line.  The driver called her acknowledgement and about a dozen people of varying sizes poured out on to the sidewalk to allow us out.

As I helped Demeter step down backwards, I heard the driver yell:  "NO!  You cannot get on!  These people are all getting back in!  This bus is FULL!"  She smiled reassuringly at us, and I thanked everyone.

This was an improvement on the day before, when a couple (old enough to know better) leapt ahead of us like a pair of gazelles, and claimed two courtesy seats, leaving only enough room for Demeter to sit and clutch her walker close.

I'll bet they were American. 

Energy vampires

I knew this was going to be a challenging week, even before this turned up on the Facebook feed for Demeter's church this morning.

I have just survived a short dinner with Double Leo Sister. She's an extrovert, and extroverts are supposed to draw their energy from other people - I'm just not sure they are supposed to suck other people dry, are they? Persephone the introvert (are you surprised?) is spending what remains of the evening drawing energy from herself - and from the occasional servings of espresso ice cream that she's making the Resident Fan Boy bring to her.

Later this week, I resume watercolour lessons with younger daughter. That's okay, but one of the students, who didn't make the last session, is a saccharine, platitude-spouting nice-as-pie woman who reminds me strongly of my late mother-in-law. I've tried to conceal my dislike of her, but I'm pretty sure she knows.

I've always suspected that people I have trouble liking probably have traits I hate in myself.

Am I a platitude-spouting energy vampire?

I want more ice cream....

Holy father of. . .

What I wanted to write:

Dear Fellow Ancestry Member,

I have watched with horrified fascination over the past week as you have saved record after record that I have posted, from my family tree to yours.

Just one question.  How on earth do you think you are related to the people in your own tree, let alone those in mine?  

I hardly know where to start.  Don't you think it's odd that the great-great-great-grandfather you've assigned for your home person was, according to you, married seven times, and that four of those marriages are double marriages to his own sisters-in-law? Or that the 32 children you're claiming he fathered are mostly duplicates (mercifully) of nieces and nephews, and in a couple of cases, great-nieces and first cousins?

Sorry, that's three questions.

Let me tell you about the man you think is your ancestor.  He was blind from childhood and he taught music, played the organ, and tuned pianos.  How do I know this?  Because I have checked -- and this means I actually read -- each census between 1841 and 1891.  Do you know what else the censuses tell me?  No children.  None of those 32 children you have with them, a number with different surnames.  (Didn't that puzzle you?)

He married Sarah Mason in Islington in 1847.  She may have been his cousin; the Mason name appears in older generations.  She certainly wasn't his aunt, as you have indicated for the two Sarahs you claim he married.  The age difference might have been a clue to you.

I don't even want to get into the dog's breakfast of erroneous ancestors you've mixed up for him out of a hodgepodge of family trees you've borrowed from Ancestry.  I cringe, frankly, to see that you've listed my tree as a source.  Clearly, you have never looked at it. 

I would also like to point out that the grandfather you've assigned for your home person is highly unlikely to be related to you at all, so everything else is moot.  You claim he came to the States and married a Lillie Dubois in 1890.  I found him in the 1891 British census, living in Islington, London with his parents and siblings, and studying the law.  In 1901, he's still living with his parents who have moved to Surrey.  You've saved this record to your own tree.  Did you bother to read it? He's listed as a solicitor and he is single.  You have him as the father of  six children by then.

Eleven men named Frederick William Hales were born in England between 1845 and 1871 -- it is not an unusual name.  I am positive that the Frederick William Hales in your tree is not your ancestor.  I think you should remove the documents you have copied from my tree; it is a poor use of them and you are proving absolutely nothing.  

And I really wish you'd remove the reference for my tree.  You're embarrassing the hell out of me.

Despairingly, 

What I actually sent:

Dear (her name), 

You are, of course, free to ignore this.

I have noticed, with some interest, that you have been saving copies of various documents I have posted to my tree, connected with my great-great-grandfather, my great-great-great-grandparents  and their family.  I am somewhat dismayed to see them attached to the wrong people, especially since I am sure you would like your tree to have your real ancestors in it!

I can tell you that the Frederick William Hales and his ancestors -- at least as you have placed them on your tree -- cannot possibly be related to you.

Will you permit me to tell you why?

You say your ancestor Frederick William Hales, the father of William Nallard Hales, married Lillie Dubois in 1890 and fathered eight children during the following 16 years.  My third cousin twice removed Frederick William Hales (who is the grand-nephew of my great-great-great-grandparents, not their grandson as you have in your tree) was living with his parents at the time of both the 1891 British census and the 1901 British census, where he is clearly noted as being a solicitor and and single.  In 1903, he was a godfather to the son of his eldest sister Edith Eliza Seymour (née Hales) at a christening at St Andrew Alexandra Park in north London.  He married Margaret Evelyn Rawson at the very same church in 1920.  He is noted as a 51-year-old bachelor - not a widower. 

None of this fits with the details you have provided about your ancestor who is clearly another Frederick William Hales.  This means, I'm afraid, that none of the ancestors, uncles, aunts, and cousins that you have for your Frederick William Hales, nor the documents you have attached,  belong in your tree. There were eleven men named Frederick William Hales born in England between 1845 and 1871.  I'm sure, with some research and detective work, you can find your true ancestor, the Frederick William Hales who belongs on your tree, and learn his story.  Have you considered joining a family history society?  They could be of tremendous help to you.

Sincerely, 

See?  This is why I need to wait three days before trying to correct someone on the internet.  She may get ticked off with me anyway, but I, at least, think I don't sound as angry in the second draft.

Victorian Vertigo

When I was ten or so, my church was in James Bay, an old neighbourhood of Victoria, BC which used to be a bay before it was drained and built up. (When the Big One comes -- the super-earthquake for which we're rather overdue -- James Bay will not be a fortuitous place to be.) One Sunday, they took the R.E. (Religious Education) classes out to the breakwater for an outing and since my mother was teaching one of the classes at the time, she came along. I don't recall how far Demeter walked out (the breakwater is very long), but I remember she was dressed in brown and what a state her stockings were in when her vertigo overtook her and she crawled off the wall on her hands and knees.

The Resident Fan Boy was very sympathetic when he heard this sad tale, being a sufferer from a fear of heights himself. We made a trip out to the breakwater last summer with younger daughter and while both made it to the end, which affords an unimpeded view of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the southern edge of Esquimalt and the mouth of the Inner Harbour, neither enjoyed it very much. It's true; the sea wall, which is about ten feet across, felt very narrow with the sea several feet below on either side.

However, during the past year, the powers that be have erected a metal fence on either side, so Demeter declared that she would like to make her first repeat visit since her last ignominious retreat in torn pantyhose during my childhood.

The barriers made all the difference. Demeter strolled happily down to the very end and, using my Nikon, snapped seascapes for her "cover photo' on her Facebook Timeline. Then she made her way back in triumph, and took a header down the ramp at the café, despite the fact that she was watching her feet and holding firmly to the rail.

Oh, she was okay. She's a retired physiotherapist and had the presence of mind to roll, ending up with two enormous goose-eggs on either side of her forehead which made her look like Boris Karloff in Frankenstein.

Her stockings were fine, not a run in 'em.

Why searching for lyrics online is a bad idea

...because it's a great way to get a virus. Something has "intruded" on my desktop, leaving other family members unscathed for some reason. We're getting a little man in. See you later. (I hope.)