Third post in as many months, such a huge difference from the old days when I had to contain myself to keep from writing two in a day, and that was because I didn’t want to be one of THOSE bloggers who blogged every time they went to the bathroom. But this? My own little pace? Infrequent is an understatement.

I could have lived a thousand lifetimes between now and the last time I posted.

Instead, I had an uncle pass away of cancer. I got to see him the day before it happened; he lived his last days at a hospice with a beautiful view of San Diego. Gorgeous. It was practically on top of the world, surrounded by lovely, peaceful parks and great architecture. The only bad thing about the place is that those who could benefit most from such heaven-like surroundings really can’t appreciate it because either they’re there for palliative care, or they’re there for their loved one who doesn’t have long to live. My uncle was there for less than a week, and he was surrounded by all of his sisters through a lot of that time.

These sisters, my mother included, are all descended from that young farmer from New York who became a soldier in the Spanish-American war and started a family in the Philippines, the man with the dark blue eyes, dark brown hair, and ruddy skin, according to the military records I found online. My mother’s family all have brown eyes, but of them all, my uncle had the lightest eyes — a strange shade of golden amber, real tawny. He probably resembled that young farmer the most.

I wanted to tell my uncle about his grandfather’s family tree, and I wanted to tell him what else I discovered in that tree since I last posted about it. I thought it might give him some peace to know. There’s a saying I heard somewhere, about how you’ll live a longer, better, more peaceful life if at least once you visit where you came from. My words are all wrong, of course, but the meaning is there. So I thought it would be kind of neat to give that to my uncle in his last days, but he was already too far gone by then.

But here’s what I found out:

My great grandfather’s mother was descended from a Revolutionary War colonel. I had finally figured out her maiden name and consequently discovered that her family branch is recorded in old genealogy books, two of which I’ve hunted and bought. Beavers is the surname, and I was amused to find out that some of those Beavers (distant cousins) went on to marry Pickles — at least two or three of them did, actually. Beavers and Pickles … hmm. The name Lanning and Hart also came up in my family tree, and they, too, were early settlers.

The colonel’s name was Joseph Beavers, and the word is that he was Scotch-Irish. Other people in the family, those who married the colonel’s descendants, probably came from England and Germany. I’m such a brown little girl, I’m tickled pink to think I have a tiny bit of Irish in me, let alone, Scotch, English, or German. That would explain why I have cousins with blue, gray, or hazel eyes, light skin, and bridges on their noses. There’s a Philippine creation myth that implies Filipinos’ noses were made with mud, and that’s why they’re flat, brown, and squishy.

But anyway, besides all of that, I’ve been working, playing catch-up — always playing catch-up. March is my month to really get caught up, though, as I’ll be traveling again in April. I’m hoping nothing else comes up besides taxes and work before then.

That way, I may be able to post a little more frequently.

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