Dea. John Kyle from Lochgilphead, Scotland

10.23.19 ~ Tim and Aunt Delorma behind the gravestones of their ancestors,
John & Mary Kyle ~ Old Cemetery on the Plains, Windham, New Hampshire

Another one of Tim’s grandmother’s lines goes back to Scotland. A perfect excuse to spend a lovely autumn afternoon with Tim’s aunt in New Hampshire, locating the gravestones of their ancestors, while enjoying the gorgeous fall colors en route.

Allegra Estelle Hamilton 1900-1992
Gertrude Mabel “Gertie” Hubbard 1874-1965
Delorma Brown “DB” Hubbard 1842-1915
Lydia P. Randolph 1807-1901
Jane Koyl 1779-1870
Ephraim Koyl 1753-1838
Dea. John Kyle c. 1722-1769
Dea. John Kyle c. 1682-1762

10.23.19 ~ John & Mary Kyle, Scottish immigrants

Fortunately the Find A Grave website provided some older and much clearer photographs of these tombstones and I was able to identify them by matching up the markings that could be made out. And thankfully, the original epitaphs were recorded there, as well.

HERE LYES THE BODY OF
MR. JOHN KYLE HE DIED
MAY 12th 1762 AGED 80
YEARS

Here lies the
Body of Mrs.
Mary Kyle, Wife
of Deacon John
Kyle Who Died
January ye 8th
1778 Aged –
84 years –

The following is from The History of Windham in New Hampshire by Leonard Allison Morrison, (Boston, Massachusetts: Cupples, Upham & Co., 1883), 68, 615, 616

KYLE FAMILY

John Kyle, of Scotch race, was a settler here previous to 1740, and lived near J.-L. Cottle’s. He m. Mary —, who d. Jan. 8, 1778, æ. 84 yrs.; he d. May 12, 1762, æ. 80 yrs. Child:—

Dea. John, who succeeded him on the farm; m. Agnes —; made an elder during the pastorate of Rev. William Johnston; date of death not known; was taxed as late as 1780.

Children, b. Windham: —
Ephraim2, b. July 1, 1753. (See Revolutionary history, p. 68.)
William
2, b. Aug. 8, 1755.
Mary
2, insane, and provided for by the town.
Janet
2, insane, and provided for by the town.

WINDHAM MEN IN THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL

Capt. Elisha Woodbury’s company, Colonel Stark’s regiment
CASUALTIES AND LOSSES
Ephraim Kyle, 1 gun and bayonet, £2, 2s.

Tim’s 7th-great-grandfather, John Kyle was born about 1682 in the small village of Lochgilphead, Scotland and was an original settler of Windham, New Hampshire.

His grandson, Tim’s 5th-great-grandfather, Ephraim Koyl, son of John and Agnes (—) Kyle, was born 1 July 1753 in Windham (Rockingham) New Hampshire, and died 25 August 1838 in Kitley, Johnson District, Upper Canada [now Elizabethtown-Kitley Twp. (Leeds) Ontario]. He married in Londonderry (Rockingham) New Hampshire (as his first wife and as her second husband),

Abigail (Reading) Kincaid, who was born 17 February 1753 in Portsmouth (Rockingham) New Hampshire, and died 11 April 1810 in Kitley, daughter of John and Mary (—) Redding.

Abigail had married (as her first husband) John M. Kincaid, who died in the 16 August 1777 (Revolutionary War) Battle of Bennington while serving with Ephraim. The Americans successfully defended colonial military stores against a British raiding party. After Abigail married Ephraim they moved to Canada about 1792, and had settled on Irish Creek, near a place called Koyl’s Bridge, in Kitley by 1803. After Abigail died, Ephraim married a second, unidentified wife, who died in Kitley, 6 September 1844.

Ephraim & Abigail were the parents of seven children. The firstborn, Jane Koyl, was Tim’s 4th-great-grandmother. She was born 4 April 1779 in Manchester (Bennington) Vermont, and died 19 October 1870 in Albion (Orleans) New York. She married (as her first husband) Abram Randolph, son of Benjamin Randolph & Jane Long, on 15 January 1797, and bore him eleven children. Abram died on 18 November 1824 and she then married (as her second husband) David Coombs, on 25 February 1847.

“The Death of General Warren at the Battle of Bunker’s Hill, June 17, 1775”
by John Trumbull

Private Ephraim fought in the Battle of Bunker’s Hill near the beginning of the Revolutionary War. He was wounded by a musket ball which entered his jaw and lodged in his neck, and was later removed, leaving a scar. As he was being carried off the battlefield his gun and bayonet were taken from him, for which he was later given some monetary compensation. Promoted to sergeant, Ephraim went on to fight in the Battle of Bennington two years later.

The Battle of Bennington was a battle of the American Revolutionary War, part of the Saratoga campaign, that took place on August 16, 1777, in Walloomsac, New York, about 10 miles from its namesake Bennington, Vermont. ~ Wikipedia

Apparently the name Kyle was used in the United States, but changed to Koyl when the family moved to Canada. Ephraim is listed under both spellings in his Revolutionary War pension files. It’s puzzling why Ephraim decided to move to Canada after fighting on the American side of the Revolution.

autumn in the quiet corner

10.14.19 ~ along Rte. 169

Every autumn we take a leaf-peeping drive up Rte. 169 in the “Quiet Corner” of Connecticut. The state highway winds slowly through scenic countryside but it’s almost impossible to stop and photograph anything because there are no breakdown lanes on the side of the road. We stopped at a cemetery, however, and found two beautiful trees, one in full fall color and one with about half of its leaves already down on the ground.

10.14.19 ~ along Rte. 169

We were headed for the Vanilla Bean Café in Woodstock where we enjoyed a lunch made from local farm-to-table ingredients. We missed coming last year because we were in North Carolina welcoming Finn into the family. (The little explorer has started walking! He’s been raring to go since before he was born, so it’s not too surprising. He’ll be a year old on November 1st.)

10.14.19 ~ along Rte. 169

After lunch I was disappointed to find the Christmas Barn was closed for the Columbus Day holiday. And then Tim was very disappointed to find that Mrs. Bridge’s Pantry had gone out of business. A lot can change in two years. But we found a new antique place, the Rusty Relic, which we both enjoyed exploring before we set out on the return trip home.

10.14.19 ~ along Rte. 169

Recently I have discovered cassava flour. And the discovery has come at a most opportune time because my gut problems have been getting worse over the past year. Bad enough to send me to a gastroenterologist. In addition to sticking to the paleo diet, I am now incorporating a low-FODMAP diet into the plan.

10.14.19 ~ along Rte. 169, a new antique store, one of three buildings

I’ve always been sensitive to wheat and milk and because of this have not had pancakes in many years. For a while I could eat some gluten-free pancakes, but they were often made with almond flour and I’ve developed a sensitivity to nuts. But cassava flour is made from a root vegetable (thank goodness I can still eat those!) and I found a paleo recipe for cassava pancakes made with coconut milk. (grain-free, gluten-free, dairy-free, nut-free) We tried them and couldn’t believe how good they tasted!!! Tim even said he didn’t think he could tell the difference between them and wheat pancakes.

10.14.19 ~ at the Rusty Relic

So now we’re enjoying a new (revived) tradition, Sunday morning pancakes. And that is part of what was very nice about our autumn drive this year. We had cassava pancakes at home before we left and felt like real New Englanders for the rest of the day, taking in all the sights and sounds and tastes of a crisp fall day.

10.14.19 ~ at the Rusty Relic

feathered stomachs borne on mighty legs

10.14.19 ~ Brooklyn, Connecticut ~ emu

Emus are little more than feathered stomachs borne on mighty legs and ruled by a tiny brain. If an emu wants one of your sandwiches, he will get it, and then run away. He cannot help you with your sudoku.
~ Richard Fortey
(Horseshoe Crabs & Velvet Worms: The Story of the Animals & Plants That Time Has Left Behind)

Last weekend we stopped by Creamery Brook Bison looking for local bison meat. Nobody was home, except this curious creature, who came over to its enclosure fence to check us out.

10.14.19 ~ Brooklyn, Connecticut ~ emu

The more I talked to it, the higher it lifted its head. Wonder what was going on in that little bird brain. Thinking about me as a potential source of food, no doubt. I don’t think it gets its picture taken very often.

10.14.19 ~ Brooklyn, Connecticut ~ emu

descriptions of commonplace things

“October” by Willard Metcalf

Back in March, when I was sorting through the boxes of family stuff, I found the following undated, typewritten account of a lovely October day Tim’s great-grandparents spent together many years ago. Charles Amos Hamilton (1866-1943) wrote it for his wife, Gertrude Mabel Hubbard (1874-1965). They lived in Batavia, New York.

AN OCTOBER DAY

Written for the delectation of my good wife, Gertrude, who delights in reading descriptions of commonplace things, written in rather grandiloquent language.


The poet wrote,
“What is so rare as a day in June,
Then, if ever, come perfect days.”

Without questioning the judgment or belittling the taste of the writer of this couplet, I make the assertion that, with equal or even greater veracity, it might have been written with the substitution of “October” for “June.” For, in old October, Nature gives us examples of a brilliance of coloring, and a tang of ozone, which June, for meteorological reasons, cannot duplicate.

I arise on a bright October morning and raise the shades of my bedroom window. What a riot of all the hues of the rainbow meet my eyes. From the pale green of maple leaves not yet touched by autumn’s frosty fingers, up through the entire gamut of the spectrum, to the vivid scarlet of maples of a different species. As the leaves rustle in the light breeze, they seem to be whispering “Goodbye” to their companions of the departed summer. The dark green limbs of the evergreens nearer the house, stand out like sentinels, bravely daring the blasts of the coming winter. The sunlight lies in little pools in the verdancy of the lawn, dotted here and there by vagrant leaves which have thus early abandoned the protection of their parent branch. The clump of spireas, which last June resembled a snow-bank, now has the appearance of a cluster of shrubs, which in the serene consciousness of a duty well done, are now nestling quietly and unobtrusively together. A belated hollyhock, and a few sturdy petunias, render an additional dash of color. Glancing from the the rear window, I behold the majestic line of cedars, bowing gently before the breeze, but standing with all the dignity of a line of knights in full armor. The row of sweet alyssum shows the same white purity it has maintained for several months. Two scarlet rose-buds, with youthful optimism, raise their heads fearlessly to the autumnal skies, disregarding the improbability of their ever being able to attain maturity.

Later in the day, we take a drive in our Buick, through the farm lands of the vicinity. The same magnificent coloring marks the foliage everywhere, outdoing the most artistic efforts of the painter’s brush. Huge stacks of golden straw stand beside the farmer’s barns, testifying to the repleteness of the barns with fodder for the stock. We know without inspection, that the cellars are well filled with fruits and vegetables, destined to adorn many a well-filled table, and to furnish apples and pop-corn for groups of merry young people. In the fields, the sheep are quietly nibbling, already comfortably clad in their winter woolens. The cows are lying placidly chewing the rumen of contentment. Everything denotes peace, harmony and plenty. Occasionally, a vagrant leaf flutters down momentarily upon the hood of the car, then, as if disdaining its warmth, flutters away to joining its companions by the roadside.

In the evening, fortified by an excellent dinner, maybe washed down by a flagon of “Old October ale,” we sit by the bright flame of our fireplace, and as we listen to the occasional snap of the apple-tree wood, and watch the sparks seek freedom via the chimney, we feel that “God’s in His heaven, all’s right with the world.” Yes, what is so rare as a day in October?

apple picking season

“Idunn & Bragi” by Nils Blommér

Idunn was married to Bragi, god of poetry, and she was sweet and gentle and kind. She carried a box with her, made of ash wood, which contained golden apples. When the gods felt age beginning to touch them, to frost their hair or ache their joints, then they would go to Idunn. She would open her box and allow the god or goddess to eat a single apple. As they ate it, their youth and power would return to them. Without Idunn’s apples, the gods would scarcely be gods …
~ Neil Gaiman
(Norse Mythology)

Iduna (Iðunn, Idun, Idunn, Ithun, Idunna) is my favorite Norse goddess, mostly because of the apples, my favorite fruit. It’s been my experience that an apple a day does keep the doctor away. And now, during apple picking season, my thoughts turn to Iduna and the art depicting her I’ve posted to my blog in the past.

Nine years ago I posted this story about my father, who was still alive at the time:

When my father was a boy growing up on a New England farm during the Great Depression, his family picked as many apples as they could and stored some of them in a barrel in the root cellar. Of course he ate as many as he could while picking them, but his parents had a rule about the ones in the barrel he found exasperating. If anyone wanted an apple later in the fall or winter, he was required to take one that was the least fresh. By the time they got to the fresher ones they had also become much less fresh! So all winter he was having to make do with eating not-so-great apples. If only he had known he might have called on Iduna to keep the apples fresher longer!

Dad’s favorite variety was the McCoun. After six years, I still miss him. Will be stopping by the orchard again soon. ♡

time is not even a thing

9.22.19 ~ timeworn hardware at Mystic Seaport

And this means that time is a mystery, and not even a thing, and no one has ever solved the puzzle of what time is, exactly. And so, if you get lost in time it is like being lost in a desert, except that you can’t see the desert because it is not a thing.

And this is why I like timetables, because they make sure you don’t get lost in time.

~ Mark Haddon
(The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time)

For me, this might be why I like (need?) clocks. Getting lost in time for me is more like being lost at sea. (I’ve sailed across the ocean but I’ve never seen a desert.)

I hadn’t thought much about it before I read this book, but I have a clock in every room of my house. Clocks were one of the few moorings I had at school when I was growing up. The bell always rang at the right time. A difficult class could only last until the appointed time. Thinking about all this also brought up a fond memory.

Many years ago, long before I knew anything about autism, and long before there were cell phones, we were visiting Tim’s aunt and subconsciously I was looking, one room after another, for a clock, feeling very anxious. At some point it sunk in that I wasn’t going to find one and before I could check my tongue I blurted out, “you don’t have any clocks!”

Tim’s aunt said she guessed that was true, and a few minutes later she kindly brought me a watch to keep with me for the day. That’s one thing I love about her, she accepts my quirks and does what she can to make me feel welcome and comfortable anyway. ♡

It was almost three years ago when I found out that I was on the autism spectrum and thought that I would blog about it a lot more than I have. That doesn’t mean I haven’t been observing my interactions with the neurotypical world and sorting through memories with new understanding. It’s been a journey of discovery, fascinating but difficult to articulate, probably because of my brain thinking mostly in pictures.

I prefer analog clocks to digital ones. When I see the numbers on a digital clock my brain translates them to the clock pictured in my mind. And it takes a bit of time.

I enjoyed The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, a mystery novel written from the viewpoint of a teenage boy with autism. The author doesn’t have autism so it’s amazing that he can describe the train of thoughts running through the brain of an autistic person. I read the book in one day! It was so easy to picture everything he was talking about.

I dislike feeling unmoored and lost in time, simply because there is no clock around to anchor me. But then I remember, our brains are as mysterious as time, and oftentimes anxiety happens.

Being awake. Resting in the happening of this moment, exactly as it is. Relaxing the need to understand or to make things different than they are. Opening the heart. Just this — right here, right now.
~ Joan Tollifson
(Resting in the Happening of this Moment)

a very misleading thing

9.22.19 ~ Mystic River ~ jellyfish, seaweed for lunch

It’s being here now that’s important. There’s no past and there’s no future. Time is a very misleading thing. All there is ever, is the now.

We can gain experience from the past, but we can’t relive it; and we can hope for the future, but we don’t know if there is one.

~ George Harrison
(Unwavering Choices)

autumn arrives

9.22.19 ~ oak leaves and acorns ~ Mystic, Connecticut

The morns are meeker than they were —
The nuts are getting brown —
The berry’s cheek is plumper —
The Rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf —
The field a scarlet gown —
Lest I sh’d be old fashioned
I’ll put a trinket on.

~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #32)