24
Oct 24
Oct 24
A period of time short and marked
It was a lovely day. Was it a lovely day for you? It was a lovely day here. We’re in a nice long stretch of them, and it’s worth soaking up a little part of them whenever you can. I went out for a little run today, and before I started I stood under this beautiful old tree and watched the wind toss the limbs and leaves back and forth.
And then I ran two miles. I did not think of that tree again, which is a shame. It probably would have made the time pass more quickly, which would have been good, since I run slow. And it would have been less painful, since that’s a thing when you haven’t been running, and i haven’t been running. I should have thought of that tree.
We’re in this beautiful phase of things — and I suppose all of phases have their beauty — where the aging, shifting, changing seasons still have these beautiful colors we’re used to, but take on new hues.
The bees are unbothered, still going about their work with no additional hurry. Just the same amount of hurry they’ve always known. The same degree of purpose.
The still bright vibrant colors, the weathered, weary look. It captures a mood. Feeling it, but still here, still with our own purpose, still glorious. Still.
We all feel like that from time to time, I suppose. It can be beautiful.
Or maybe it was just the day. The angle of the sun this time of year, while we’re now so aware of being cheated, is simply stunning. This photo means nothing the rest of the year, maybe it means little now, but it’s playful, isn’t it? It’s full of expectation. It’s waiting for something.
I decided to try a little ride in the late afternoon, to see if I could pedal the run out of my legs. I went out seven miles into a headwind, the slowest, ploddingest ride I can muster. It was going so poorly I was able to compose this photo.
But then I turned around, and I put up perhaps some of the fastest splits I’ve done in … a while. Maybe that’s what makes the season, and days like today. It’s a sense from somewhere deep, deep enough you can’t ignore. So we try to absorb it through our eyes and skin and all of our senses because … we know. We know it’s only for the short while.
23
Oct 24
Oct 24
Have I found a character for you today
You’re going to want to stick with this. I made an error, caught the error, corrected the error, and the story below got immensely better because of it.
Spent the morning grading at home — because it is another week with plenty of things to grade, and that’s what I did yesterday, what I’m doing today and what I’ll do tomorrow. This week we’re reading a critical analysis from a Dutch scholar.
But we spent the afternoon on campus. Sandwich lunch in the office. I read student assignments in the office. There was a marketing meeting. From the office of The More Things Change, someone explained SEO and we discussed WordPress. We had a nice time.
So after a lovely afternoon with colleagues, my lovely bride and I went over to the big kids’ pool. It was my first swim in four weeks.
And it felt surprisingly decent. Good, even, in places. And before I knew it, I was in that weird vacant groove and the lengths and laps just started disappearing. And then, suddenly (OK, slowly) I had an easy 2,000-yard workout under my belt.
Did not see the comet on the drive home. Mostly, we were busy chatting about class strategies and research. And now, after dinner, I’ll have to get back to grading.
But first!
We return once again to We Learn Wednesdays. The point is, riding my bike around the county, tracking down historical markers, sharing them here and trying to add a bit more context that what the signs offer us. This is the 51th installment, and the 83rd marker in the We Learn Wednesdays series.
And this time we’re going to Thomas Sinnickson’s house.
Thomas Sinnickson was born in 1797, and he blends right in with a large family, one that uses the same names over and over. Lots of Thomas Sinnicksons. Lots of Andrew Sinnicksons. Some of his elders had been in the state militia and in the Continental Army. There are two of his ancestors who served in both the state and U.S. legislature. A later Sinnickson went to Congress as well.
But those people aren’t the Thomas who built this house.
Our guy is maybe the third most famous Thomas in his family, which is to say, he’s not. His was a family that dates back to the original Swedish settlers. I spent a fair amount of time trying to trace my way through the Sinnicksons, deleting about five paragraphs of summary when I found I’d made a big generational error. But now we have it right. And it’s even more entertaining.
Thomas died at just 45, in 1842. Searches don’t tell me much about him, in part, perhaps, because of the other Thomas Sinnicksons that preceded. But we do know this. He and Clarissa had five daughters and three sons. The youngest died at just 21, in an asylum. One of the sons was a poet. One daughter moved across the country, to Oregon. (By way of sail, around Cape Horn, a six-month journey.) And in that woman there is a tale.
There’s a bit more about her, here, in the far right column. I would watch the movie about that woman’s life.
The rest of the family stayed much closer to home. Two of Thomas and Clarissa’s children made it into their 80s. All told, four of them lived into the 20th century. And this is where they grew up, surely steeped in their family’s history, and definitely in the midst of their community’s history, as we’ll see in the coming weeks.
The building was sold last year. From what I can tell, it’s been used as converted office space for quite some time.
Speaking of poets, the next time we return to the marker series we’ll learn a bit about a former slave turned poet. If you have missed any markers so far, you can find them all right here.
