Is Blogging Dead?

Am I at a party that's turned into a wake?

Recently I've heard about blogging's demise ("Facebook and Twitter have taken over," they say. "Blog posts are too long to hold people's interest," they say.) So, I've been re-evaluating my blogging career. Are all the good blogging gigs being shipped overseas? Do I need to post in Mandarin?

I've come to a conclusion: Blogging as a fad is dead, blogging isn't. Here's why: A blog is a place to write, like a notebook or a billboard or a magazine or a postcard. It's also a virtual office, with file cabinets, display shelves, writing tools and folders for research. It's a creative space, like a photography workshop, a painting studio or a practice cubicle.

My mom had a big closet she turned into her sewing room. Pictures of the latest fashions hung on the walls, fabric was piled in colorful stacks, threads and bobbins perched on pegs. An ironing board leaned against a file cabinet stuffed with patterns and all sorts of sewing paraphernalia: measuring tapes, cutting wheels, rick-rack and bias tape. Mom was an organized and gifted seamstress, but this room would not have been featured in an issue of Where Women Create. Hers was a workshop. Pajama sleeves were in progress, along with mending projects and home-ec assignments. I'm sure Mom saw some spacious sewing rooms and compared them to hers. Maybe she envied new equipment, commissions for wedding gowns, time spent sitting at a Pfaff, accolades for talent. (I know for a fact her oldest daughter didn't give her the appreciation she deserved.) But shutting down her sewing room was not an option. It's where she did her sewing, where she stashed her sewing stuff. It was her creative space.

I visit other blogs, see how imaginative they are, how artistic and witty, count the advertisers who trust their skill, read comments by the dozen. What's the point of my daily meandering in this blogosphere of expertise? Who's reading it? Should readers even be the reason I write? I understand why bloggers are shutting down: their blog feels like a closet at the back of the house, and nobody cares what they're doing back there.

Thinking about blogs woke up my gratitude for this little place I've created. Stuffed in my blog are organized piles of my life's paraphernalia:

• Accounts of who I am, where I've been, where I'm going.
• Facts I'd tell a new friend.
• Facts old friends already know.
• How I've felt from day to day about my experiences.
• What I've learned from them.
• What I want to remember.
• Talents I'm discovering and plans for using them.
• Advice I can't share any other way.
• What I'd tell my psychiatrist.
• Hidden jewels from my childhood.
• A written record of our family.
• My knowledge of truths about God.
• A collection of my anecdotes.
• Stories about my ancestors.
• Trip diaries.
• Lists of goals.

I could go on and on, (and if you check my archives, you'll see I have.) These are the Brass Plates of Oma: my anthology is available to my posterity forevermore. It's already an organized resource for pioneer stories, family factoids, photos, vacation memories, tips, dates, names and lesson materials. Sure, it's rambling, boring, full of too much information, but so is every library. Workshops have dust and wood chips laying around, but does that make the furniture any less valuable? My blog—your blog—is a treasure house.

Oma's Blog Boosters

1. Don't compare my blog to others. I'm unique and so are they.
2. Don't judge the success of my blog by the numbers.
3. Tour my blog occasionally to see what gems I've collected.
4. Take a break from writing when I need to. (Who cares, really??) It'll still be there when I come back.
5. When my blog feels like a nag, set it aside, but don't question it's value.

My blog is a place where I gather, assemble, evaluate, ponder, wonder, brag, whine, remember, worry, chat, work, organize, practice and learn. It's mine.

As a blogger, I boldly declare: Blogging is Not Dead. Blogging is a living, breathing, vital pursuit, dedicated to enlightening the past, energizing the present, and enriching the future.

Irish Immigration

Portaferry, Northern Ireland

In the 1800s all of Ireland was part of Great Britain. English barons owned the land and allowed Irish tenant farmers to live in small huts on their land and grow food, most of which they gave back to the landlord for rent. When the landlords decided they could make more money raising cattle and sheep, they evicted the tenants, tore down the huts, and sent the excess food to Europe for a good profit. Starving children watched ships leaving the ports loaded with food, while they were eating grass to survive.

Highways filled with farmers and their families, wandering aimlessly about begging for food just to keep alive. They lived almost exclusively on potatoes. In 1845 a fungus known as blight caused the potato plants to rot in the ground, giving off an appalling stench—the whole countryside smelled foul. By early autumn famine was imminent, not because there was no food—there was plenty of wheat, meat, and cheese—but because the peasants had no money, and no way to earn it. To add to the misery, that winter was the harshest in living memory.


One and a half million people died of starvation and disease in The Great Famine, and waves of immigrants fled Ireland. Never before had the world witnessed such an exodus; a million people sailed across the Atlantic in leaky, overcrowded ships to Canada and the United States.

Ferry Street, Portaferry

We went to Portaferry in Northern Ireland to trace one of them: James Mullin. Back in the day, local public records were sent to offices in Dublin for safe-keeping, but those buildings were destroyed in the rebellion of 1922. Now the information available is from diaries and letters sent back home by immigrants; the history of Irish immigration was hidden in attics and basements.

Portaferry librarians

One man's garbage is another man's treasure. Luckily, Portaferry historians collected and organized some of the local records. Two of them were expecting us, and pulled out a box.


We could visualize the experience of James and his family by reading letters and journals written by others at the same time, in similar circumstances. Twenty-year-old Hugh Quinn was about the same age when he left Portaferry within a few months of James. This is from a letter he wrote:


Tuesday, September 9, 1847

Dearest Honored Mother,
The wind so long looked for is at hand, and I’m ready to leave Portaferry. I dread as death the moment of my separation from you.



He wrote this in his diary that same day:

I found myself surrounded by my mother and sisters, having my coat buttoned, unbuttoned and buttoned again by each of them. The walking stick fell from my trembling hand and was handed to me by little Alice. I could not move from the spot nor could I get out a word. I turned hastily from my mother to hide my swelling tears. ‘It will be forever,’ I said. ‘It is still not yet too late,’ she said. ‘Stay at home.’ I looked back through my tears to see my little brother crying on the dock, and I stepped onto the boat.

Axel Lundgren 1913

My grandpa left Sweden at seventeen, and it was forever. Like James Mullin, he married, had children, made a life in a new land and never returned.

I can't imagine what it was like for the mothers.

Searching for Puritan Ancestors

When my great-grandpa Anthony Colby arrived in Salem, Massachussetts on April 8, 1630, nobody stamped his passport. He was undocumented. Did anybody keep track of folks in those days?

I went underground as a sleuth in London, England to find out.

Forty five minutes outside the city is a town called Kew.
I followed my leader down the road and arrived at . . .

The British National Archives.

Great-grandpa Colby wouldn't have been admitted. It took a passport and two forms of ID to get through the door. They took my photo at the entrance, and matched it to my face when I got to the desk inside, where they took my official photo.

Security was tighter than the airport. Bags, purses, coats, notebooks and pens had to be stowed in lockers. I carried my camera, magnifying glass, a loose piece of paper and a #2 graphite pencil (without an eraser) in a clear plastic bag to get my readers card.

The room reminded me of the DMV. There were several computers and I waited my turn, then took a short on-line course about how to handle old documents (which I skimmed) followed by a short on-line quiz (which I flunked.) I returned to the course, passed the quiz and qualified for a card, which unlocked the gates to each library room—where they searched my plastic bag each time I went in or out. It was starting to seem like a big deal.

I was glad I'd done my homework. This wasn't the LDS Family History Library: no sweet missionaries hovering around with smiles and helpful tips. These were serious historians who expected me to know preliminary facts, speaking with accents and vocabulary I could barely understand. After a little research I requested "a bundle."

There were 5,000 bundles of documents stored in damp, vermin-infested warehouses on London docks for hundreds of years. They were consolidated in one building in 1883 and moved to this new facility in 1997, but by then many had deteriorated or been eaten by rats. Just 1,450 survived, and one of them had my name on it.

Luckily, I'd just completed a course on how to unwrap my bundle.

I put on my white cotton gloves and examined the sheepskin binding.

It slowly dawned on me that I was looking at the actual record.

The pages were of vellum and parchment.

The writing was beautiful and undecipherable.

Several years worth of ship's records were bound together in the same book,
and I could read the dates and recognize a few words here and there.

And I discovered that yes, somebody was keeping track of folks in those days.
There was the record of Anthony's ship, the Confidence.

Pleased to meet you, Grandpa Colby.

Postcard: It's Not All Schnitzel

This week we're in Vienna, Austria doing some research for my novel,
but being a historian is not all Schnitzel mit Nudeln.
Here's the dirt.

Works in Progress

Big anniversary.
(Click for more)

Cousins Club Newsletter
(Click for more)


Planning a trip!
(Click for more)

More to come . . .

Ghosthunting

The cottage was of ancient stone, with thick lichen on its roof slates. Nobody answered our knock, so we wandered around the back by the stream taking notes of the plants, the smells, and the sound of birds. "You there!" a man's voice boomed. "What are you up to?"

I jumped, but Dee responded with dignity. "We're searching for ghosts."

There was more to it. "We're actually tracing the history of a unique mill stone that sat at this mill until it was taken to Utah over a hundred years ago. And we're using your mill for a setting in a book."


"I've heard of that stone," he said. "It came with William Penn's settlers to the Brandywine region centuries past. From England, I understand."

These were all clues for a client named Miller, anxious to find how many generations their family had been millers. Now we had them back to Pennsylvania and possibly to somewhere in England. Stepping into the setting opens doors.

Visiting a homeland with some props and dates catches the attention of local folks.
Here in Trzesniow, Poland, just asking how to pronounce a name at the cemetery brought people with that name out of the woodwork, anxious to join in and share their own ancestry.

We were invited to the mayor's home (the one in the middle) and he tore pages out of his own records to give to us. They were of major importance to the family we were researching, and we would never have found them otherwise. Plus, being in a home, seeing the furnishings, observing the food being cooked for dinner, added an authenticity to the setting in a way a book never could.

Writing history has taught me a lot about writing fiction. Setting is a major clue to character. In a history there are actual places to visit to soak in the ambiance. In fiction it's helpful to do a real-life tour anyway of the places you'll include, and use genuine elements in your writing.

Use the facts you already know. Your ghost grew up on a farm? When?

The style of farm makes a difference.

There are clues to a person's personality in the town where he grew up, in the places his parents worked, and the surroundings he explored as a child. Farms and businesses tell stories about the economic climate of the town, just observing them. The size and prominence of schools and churches reveal the formal education of a character, and whether that was a major concern in his life.

Were folks married in a tiny church or a cathedral?
Ask around.

Were your ghosts buried on the cliff behind the church? Are the graves in a family plot, with names and dates to follow up on? Is this the poor side of the cemetery or the ritzy part with monuments and benches? Those details become conclusions that add to your story.

Is he buried out in the sticks? Alone or in a family plot?
What did it mean in that community?

Time books or financial records tell more that just cash balances. They show organizational skills, educational background, and what things were important to your ghost (or character.)

These details are often found in a town library or family archive. Phone books are available, as well as local histories and community/church scrapbooks. Pictures and articles are easily photocopied by helpful librarians. (Don't crop the photos when you get home. Make sure the colorful wallpaper and the heavy old draperies are part of the setting.) Get out a notebook and describe in detail the cabbage cooking on the stove, and the boiled tongue they offered you for lunch—even the dog hairs on the chairs. It will add veracity to your story.

Ask the librarian—"Where was this home? In the middle of town, on the outskirts?" Find out how that indicated social standing. Drive out to see the property to get a feel. This is all part of the setting that helps fill in the blanks about your character. Ask to see the birth and death records, even if you already know the dates. The handwriting, the signatures of godparents, all the little details add to the feel and tone you'll be able to portray.

A town library will have archives of newspaper clippings. Were our ghosts at the fancy weddings? It will be listed. It might even say Mr. Robson and Miss Freeman became engaged at the reception afterward. They will be married June 3, 1846. Suddenly the story has new details!

It's important in non-fiction to describe the scenes accurately. Real people knew the humidity or the bone-chilling cold, the dry wind, or the lonely walk down to the sea. Pop into the local museum and see what they wore to go to the mines or the fishing boats. It shows respect to portray them in a setting they actually experienced. Fictional characters will come alive when they're placed in a realistic setting, too.

Dee loves to get a feel for the place he's describing. It brings his characters to life and he can relate to them knowing how and where they lived.

If this is a research trip, you'll have plenty to do without the usual tourist diversions. Some city tours might add to your understanding, but concentrate on what you're trying to accomplish. Mr. Miller had Dee draw up an itinerary and planned a trip to uncover details of their ancestors on a trip to England.

"Shrewsbury was so difficult to get to," he said after they got home. "We decided to visit Bath and tour the Cotswolds, see Stratford on Avon. I couldn't face sitting in a library for days! We'll send you over for the work part of the trip!"

We're totally game! We love detecting.

Read more of our ghost hunting adventures here.

Scary Stuff: Memory Loss

I'm engrossed.

I'm in the middle of a book called The Forgotten Garden, by Kate Morton. The heroine, Nell, was only four years old when she was found, all alone, on a ship that had just arrived in Australia from England. The dock-master and his wife took her in and raised her as their own. When she was twenty-one she was told of her mysterious beginnings, and was devastated to realize she had no history. The rest of the book is the search for who she really is. History makes great stories.

Today we attended an historical event. Dee knows the background story well (he wrote it) and was thrilled to be invited to the celebration. During the program there was a lot of congratulating and thanking, counsel to be appreciative of this special occasion and to remember the gathering forever. (Of course, that took forever.)

Kids wiggled, teens texted, adults nodded off—sadly, there were no stories to hold our attention, which was a shame. The stories from the past were full of adventure, courage and faith. Listening to the speakers, we were surprised that nobody mentioned the extraordinary (yet ordinary) people we were actually celebrating. They had been totally forgotten. With a captive audience aching for entertainment, not one of their stories was told, and an opportunity was lost.

History tells us who we are. But who is History? My grandpa was, my mother was, I am, you are. We have a responsibility to tell the old stories—to pass on the lessons. Don't wait for a formal meeting with somebody at the microphone or somebody in their grave. Start small:

1. While you're carving pumpkins, tell about Halloween when you were little. Describe how your mom stitched beads on your costume the year you were an Indian princess. "Her name was June and she could sew anything."
2. Don't make the turkey the only memorable thing about Thanksgiving. Tell how your grandma made you play Teakettle at the table after dinner and then play it. "Her name was Adelila and she made the best lemon meringue pies ever!"
3. Sing an old song and say, "My dad used to sing this to me. His name was Jiggs and he fought in Australia in World War II."

If you know a story about your grandparents or great-grandparents, find an occasion to share it. (As I'm writing this, I realize I have a second wave of grandchildren who don't know that my grandpa ran away to the circus, or that my great-grandma and her daughter married brothers.) We have to share our stories. I. AM. SO. SERIOUS.

The Forgotten Garden tells a memorable tale of memories lost. It's like having amnesia to not know your history. Scary stuff. Even scarier to be the memory that got forgotten. Make yourself memorable. On November 22, tell your kids where you were in 1963. If you weren't born yet, ask your mom where she was. Ask your dad what his number was in the draft lottery, and how that changed his life, and maybe yours.

I told some grandkids that we didn't have remotes when I was little. "Was that in the olden days?" asked Chelsea. "Was that in the 90's?" asked Lucy.

If you were alive in the 90's you have some great history. Don't forget it.

Detective: Summit County, Utah

I married a detective. We're always looking for dead buildings,and the story of how they got that way. The cases are mysterious and the techniques are fascinating. For instance, there's a special kind of DNA to identify age: this broken-down old soul had personal, hand-made nails holding her together. (It's a little like having natural nails in an age of acrylic.)

At the autopsy, Dee modestly lifted up her floor boards, exposing private clues: old newspaper petticoats with dates like 1927. The tongue and groove herringbone boards, laid in specific patterns, were as time-specific as stocking seams.

He had to pronounce this old girl dead on the spot. Exposure, lack of fluids and no loving care had done her in. She collapsed right where she stood. Witnesses stood back and waited for help but she was old, gray and unbalanced. Her family run business dried up and blew away with the sheep industry, and she must have felt unnecessary like many folks do in old age. We paid our respects.

Dee attracts Ghosts and this week we're off to do some ghostbusting. Don't worry about me. I'll be with a history detective. I think of gathering history like gathering autumn leaves. We are finding the brightest examples of a former glory that beautified now barren places with life and growth. The people who created something from nothing, who raised huge families filled with hard working, inventive folks, while feeding vast numbers of citizens from the food they produced; these are the unsung heroes who built our country. Did they make any less of a contribution just because we don't know about them?

We've got our maps and our magnifying glasses and we'll bring home some news!

Photo Shoot in Midway, Utah

Getting Our Bearings
on the top of Memorial Hill

Mount Timpanogos from the back.

Drive straight South and you'll get to Provo Canyon. You'll never see it greener or more lush and beautiful. Wonder about the families who hiked up it 150 years ago,when there was no road, and a baby floated away down the river.

Look at all the canyons layered on top of each other. Hike one to get over to Sundance, another to get over to Park City, or go over Guardsman's Pass to end up at Brighton. Our valleys aren't that far apart if you go over the top. Dee's new book will name all the canyons, tell who they're named after, and the spectacular story that earned them that honor.

So many lives were lived in this peaceful valley. Indian raids, military containment, sons killed in war. Stand-offs, uprisings, or freezing winters didn't discourage early artists, musicians, photographers, teachers. Monuments to them are scattered all around town (in the form of homes, statues, businesses, ranches, and families.) Even the mountain peaks and canyons bear their names.

When you're halfway to heaven in these moutain valleys, you can hear those already gone still telling their stories. Anyway, Dee can. He found some new ones today.

Link here to see the dangerous adventurers of
a mild-mannered historian!

We're off gathering history this week!

I'll send you a postcard!

Anne Frank's Diary: A letter to my grandkids

Anne Frank, a happy 13-year-old girl.

Hi Heroes,

I want to tell you about one of my other heroes. Anne Frank lived with her family in Amsterdam while Hitler was running things in Germany. Hitler didn't like Jewish people, so he spread rumors about them and got people all riled up against them. His armies went to different countries and started tormenting Jews all over Europe.

The Jews were told to wear these yellow stars sewn to their clothes so people could tell who they were. Then, even if they were little children, people in the towns had permission to spit on them, trip them in the mud, push them down, kick them out of school. The Jews weren't allowed in restaurants, or public bathrooms, or movies, even though they were some of the most successful families in the neighborhoods. It became stylish to hate Jews. So almost everybody did.

When Anne turned thirteen she got a red-plaid diary for her birthday. She wrote in it that first day, and named it "Kitty."

"I hope I will be able to confide everything in you, as I have never been able to confide in anyone, and I hope you will be a great source of comfort and support."

This is the first entry in Anne Frank's diary, June 12, 1942 . She wanted to tell her new best-friend Kitty everything in her heart, even the stuff she couldn't tell her sister Margo, or her parents. She started writing in it every single day. Pretty soon it was all filled up, so she got new diaries. They were her pride and joy. She said she didn't feel scared when she was writing.

Anne had lots of reason to be scared. Her sister Margo was only sixteen, but the soldiers were coming to take her away to a work camp (it was really a concentration camp where they killed Jews.) Anne's parents took their girls to some hidden rooms above the dad's office in this blue building. They had to be perfectly quiet when the workers were there all day, and at night their friends brought them food and library books.

They thought it would only be for a couple of weeks but they stayed there a long time. Pretty soon, another family came, and then a man who was a dentist joined them in hiding. They had to stay there for two whole years, never going outside, always with the same people.

Anne wrote it all down in her dairy. She dreamed of having it published some day.

On a hidden radio they heard the news that the British and American armies were coming to save them soon. Every day they got more and more excited. Anne actually re-wrote her diaries so she could take them to a book-company and turn them into real books when she got out.

One horrible day, August 1, 1944, the Nazi soldiers discovered the family's hiding place in Amsterdam. The eight people who had hidden for two years were all arrested and sent to concentration camps all over Europe. Anne left her diaries in their hiding place.

The saddest part of the story is that they all died in the concentration camps. Anne, and her sister, her mother, their friends . . . all but Anne's father. After the war he went back to their hiding place and found Anne's diaries and read them. He remembered that she'd wanted to get them published so people would know what it was like to be Jewish during World War II, when Hitler and his armies were terrorizing and killing millions of Jews.

Anne's father, Otto, took the diaries to several publishing companies who all said "No." They thought a thirteen-year-old girl's diaries would be silly and unimportant. Finally, someone read one. He said, "This is an extraordinary document of the human spirit."

In her second-to-last entry she wrote,

"It's a wonder I haven't abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart."

Anne Frank

Tonight we watched the Masterpiece presentation of a new Anne Frank movie. It was so incredible it should be seen by everyone. It's a tender story, ultimately a sad story, but totally true and hopeful.

In this movie, Anne seems just like every thirteen-year-old girl and we see some of the normal family angst going on between teens and parents, all in close contact with other people who were living in intimate surroundings for two years without a break. The new movie is riveting and although I knew the end, I was caught up in it so much that I was surprised that they were found.

I cannot recommend it highly enough. I bought it so you can borrow it from Oma's Travelin Library.

The Anne Frank exhibit is in the Salt Lake City library right now as it tours the country, and it, too, is an absolute must-see for anyone over ten or so. We saw it in Amsterdam with our kids, and it is touching to see how the human spirit survives, and even thrives under horrific circumstances. It's an important history lesson that can not be lost to the next generations.

Here are some ideas for A Visit With Anne Frank. Grandparents, families, or friends could remember and learn about her:

1. Have a pajama party for eight people (sleep-over optional) in a crowded room. (There were eight people hidden in their small annex above the dad's office.) Serve a baked potato bar, and cabbage salad. (That's all they had to eat.) Serve strawberries for dessert. (Once they got strawberries for a special treat.) Each person could bring a sleeping bag (or a large quilt) plus a copy of "Diary of Anne Frank."
2. Have a game of tag outside and later talk about how the Nazi's were after the Jews, chased them down, caught them, and then hauled them off.
   
3. Tell the true story of the Holocaust using details that would be meaningful, but don't terrorize the kids you're dealing with. Go on-line for info, or just read and discover points in the diary.
   
4. Prepare some underlined parts of the book that are funny and human: what they ate, the cat getting lost, how she got in trouble, etc. When everyone is comfy on their pillow with their books, skip through and tell the story using Anne's diary and her more personal, humorous perspective.
   
5. Ask thought questions "What would you have done if you had to share your room with an old man?" "What if you couldn't go outside for two years." "Would you have been bugged by your parents, siblings, etc. if you never saw anyone else?" "How would you keep learning?"
   
6. Provide popcorn and then watch the movie.
7. Visit the exhibit in Salt Lake City (it's here until May) or whenever it gets to your town.
8. Present everyone with a diary and explain how important it will be for them to write about their life experiences, record thoughts, feelings, and even drawings.
   
9. Take pictures of each person, and send them each their photo with a quick note saying how they are a hero to you.
   

The Anne Frank exhibit is worth visiting and celebrating. It may be too mature a subject for the under-ten crowd, but I think it will open up a new world to everyone who sees it. It's a reminder of the faith and courage of children (and everyone) in hard times.

It also reminds us why it's worthwhile to write our life's story in a blog, in day-timers, in a scrapbook, in a diary, whatever, and the joy obeying this counsel brings to us throughout our lives.

Time Capsule

Is there a special dessert or meal that brings back memories to you for some reason? Serve it and tell about your memory.

Make a time capsule to open in a few years. Have everybody write a memory, stick in a photo or drawing and make plans for the big unveiling. Tell them you'll send invitations in five years, and put it on YOUR calendar so you'll remember to follow through.

Time Capsule

Most important, write in your journal. Describe your friends, the foods you like, the feelings, frustrations you have, your clothes or your hairstyle. Commit to writing about your life regularly. You're the only one who can do it.


I could finish this post with a bunch of ways a diary has made a difference for an individual or a family, but I see some hands raised already to share a personal story. Go for it! Everybody read the comments today, since they're part of the post.

Now, what did you want to say?

* Homework:

~Join in the class discussion, or write a post (tell us where to find it) on how someone keeping a journal has made a difference to you.

~Don't worry about catching up the last 5 months, (or 5 years.) Just pick up your diary and write about yourself today.