Dilemma Time

 Patience is the ability to count down before you blast off.  

Author Unknown

Hubby's surgery was over in a snap.  It was quick, painless and painless.  
Wish the rest of the day had gone that way.  The clinic works with a private cab service that shuffles its clients to and fro.  That spared us the expense because I don't drive.  And the ride over was so pleasant.  The driver was friendly and easy to converse with.  Tipping is not necessary as it is added into the bill, but we enjoyed him so much that we gave him a little extra.  Hubby and I were both in good spirits until we walked into the place. Then we realized that patience was definitely needed.

It was packed.  Standing room only.  I went outside to sit on a bench for awhile when my back started giving out.  Finally, we managed to get a couple of seats and we waited for over two hours.  Poor hubby was starving.  When he finally went into surgery I took a walk to the only food place nearby, Dunkin Donuts and bought six of them.  He ate 4 of them when he got out of surgery.  Then came the ride home.  It was a nightmare.  The cab driver obviously didn't know his way around because he ended up taking us way out of our way, and got a little huffy when hubby told him so.  Needless to say, what should have been no more than a 25 minute ride turned into nearly an hour.  Needless to say, this guy did not get that extra tip.

I think I mentioned not too long that an army Sergeant stationed at Picatinny Arsenal in New Jersey contacted me regarding my family tree.  The old cemetery on the grounds interests him, and he was especially eager to meet with me regarding what I have learned about this family.  He suggested that we meet sometime in August. This is such an opportunity, one that I never expected.  Hubby said he would drive me, and this would give me the opportunity to also visit my grandparent's graves.

But, August is the hottest month, and, although I really would like to go, but I worry about Miss Minga.  I cannot leave the AC on all day (I fear an electrical fire), and I am hesitant to leave her in the heat...despite the fact that she lies as close to the heater as she can during the winter months.  But that is a different kind of heat, and she is so old now, I just don't feel comfortable leaving her for so many hours.  There is no one to come in and check on her.  I've been thinking of writing him and asking him if we could do it in September instead. At least it 'should' be cooler, and I will feel more comfortable about leaving my baby.  It's only a day trip, but when you love an animal, they have to come before all else.

At one point  my ancestors owned hundreds of acres of the   land that the Arsenal is built upon. Their farm was located on this property and  near the edge of the former Walton Farm property, was used as either a family or community burial ground from at least 1787 until at least 1884. Currently, the only known published records of its existence are in Munsell's 'History of Morris County, 1739-1882'.  Most graves are identifiable only by fieldstone marker. What is known is that this ground, near the edge of the former Walton Farm property, was used as  burial ground from at least 1787 until at least 1884. 

It saddens me that for so many years I lived so close to my ancestors but had no idea they were there. My dad, my aunt, and most of my uncles worked at Picatinny for as long as I can remember, and they hired me when I turned 18, but when they offered me 'hazardous pay' I ran the other way.  I grew up fearing explosions, and as we kids sat in class, we never knew if it was Picatinny or the Dickerson Mines. (Another ancestry line) A wee bit of history here--When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Picatinny Arsenal was the only munitions plant in the nation capable of producing anything larger than small arms ammunition.

How awesome this visit will be!  It wasn't so long ago that I hadn't even known that they existed.  And now I have this wonderful opportunity to stand on their grounds. For hundreds of years my family lived in that area.  The last was was my parents' generation. Now they are all gone.  All that is left is their graves.

 As is the generation of leaves, so is that of humanity.
The wind scatters the leaves on the ground, but the live timber
Burgeons with leaves again in the season of spring returning.
So one generation of men will grow while another dies.
 

Homer, Iliad