Hendricks Grave Desecration

So this happened... Descendents file complaint over site "desecration"

Now I'm worried about Phebe's gravestone. Fantastic. Fortunately, I think her graveyard is on property owned by the town. So... unless they need that land, we're good. Until one day we're not.

My New Favorite Historian

I checked out a book from the library a while ago and am just now getting to read it. Or to start to. Books like this take forever for me to get through. So dense, and frankly, a teeny tiny bit boring. But, since it's a subject I'm very interested in, I'm going to keep trying. I'm going to bring it to my son's speech therapy session today, so that I can read it instead of Elle magazine from one year ago. (For real, that's the best they've got.) So I'm trying!

Anyway, there's a great chapter to this book specifically about the plight of women during the Revolution. I know John Taylor, Esq. was here in Middletown in 1777, because the Baptist Church had big discussions about him and decided to kick him out. He was, in fact, put under arrest at that time, I believe, for his role as the Royal Sheriff of Monmouth County. I need more first hand accounts of that, but I'm going with it.

At the time, Phebe would've been about 70, according to the age at her death that's been reported. It's possible she's younger, but no real confirmation on that. I'd thought that she would've been out of everything because she was 70. But I'm rethinking that because of John's prominence. She would've been most likely very affected by the events of the time because of her husband's official role as a kind of representative of Britain.

The chapter of this book that's about women's lives at that time is written by a former Drew University historian, Delight W. Dodyk. I love her name, first of all. She would be a great resource, if I could somehow talk to her. She's retired from the University, though. And I have no time. And (see my last post) I'm not really great at introducing myself to strangers. Plus I'd need to be better prepared. But that's a new goal of mine. To somehow meet her and pick her brain about the time period. And just to talk to her about Phebe. I'd love to hear her thoughts.

Off to the speech therapist and to delve into some military history. Deathly boring to me, but I really need to be able to understand what was happening at that time. I need to grow up, frankly, just in general. This will be another aspect of that.

Here's the link to the book, and although she's in the contents page, her chapter isn't on Google Books. But the link to the book is, any case.

New Jersey in the American Revolution

Maybe it's me. It's probably me.

Hey there! Well, I've been on an emotional roller coaster lately. So, when I'm feeling down, really especially down, I don't like writing. I'm negative enough as it is, and I really don't need to put down the oh-my-god-this-is-so-so-horrible negativity that sometimes courses through me. I probably need meds to level this out, but I hate medicine and I always somehow come through it. Plus I've had some bad med experiences. Wow, this paragraph is an emotional roller coaster!

Almost back to normal, just wanted to check in. We were invited to a few barbecues this past weekend. A family friend's party on Saturday and a church picnic on Sunday. Always at these kinds of things, I feel a bit like a sociologist or anthropologist studying the human beings of this particular region interacting with each other. Hence my title. It's probably me, the reason I don't fit in.

But I did try on Saturday. And I met a fair amount of transplants to the area and immediately started regaling them with the story of my daughter's horrible, scarring "ballet" recital and my horrible neighbors. Again, hence my title. It's me. Even possible friendly, normal people, I somehow try to find a way to alienate. Even my husband is getting clued in on this and is trying to "help" me by putting pressure on me to make friends. Which is what my mom used to do and doesn't really help at all. I know they both, though, just want me to be happy. Roller coaster.

Then the church picnic on Sunday. Well. I didn't even try there. When the hostess to the party has no real interest in welcoming anyone (because they're all good friends and know each other so well, that's not really normally appropriate? Fuck if I know.), well, that's just it. Fuck if I know what to think. It was classic provincial New Jersey. I don't understand anything really. Hence the sociologist thing. Hence the title. Eventually, though, some nice older church ladies started talking to me. And a teenage girl, who probably felt as out of place as I did. Oh, crap, she's me. I'm her. Ahhhh, making some sense.

I should be braver in these situations and just say, "Hi! I'm Penelope! I don't believe we've met." But that's not my personality and even when I have done that, I feel like it's accusatory or something. Like I'm calling them out for not introducing themselves. It's aggressive and hells bells, what if I have met them before? Sometimes I have. My gd memory. Also, I don't get the flow. The politeness and gentleness isn't there and I don't understand. I don't understand how it normally happens. How it's supposed to happen. Christ, I sound like I have Aspberger's. Maybe I do. Sometimes, though, I do fine. Roller coaster again.

Alright. I shouldn't be writing this, I just wanted to say, somewhere, at some time, that probably all my social problems, here and elsewhere, are due to my own crazy self. Just so you know and don't think, "My God, that Middletown place sounds fucking horrible." It's probably not. It's probably me.

Until later...

*sigh*

Hey there. Yesterday or so, I wrote a whole long post detailing how I feel specifically about how, specifically, it sucks here. And then I deleted it, because I was depressing even myself with that one. It was good to get it off my chest, but once I did, I realized that this wasn't the place. I need Phebe more than ever and I want to stay true to the spirit of the blog, which is, or should be, about researching her life.

I'll just summarize where I'm at right now by saying that things are hard. On a few different fronts. I visited Phebe's gravesite yesterday and weirdly that helped some. I think I'll spend some time reading about the history of the Baptist church in the colonies.

Then I'll work on my about section, because that needs to be written in order for the blog to make any sense whatsoever.

I'm working outside right now and I believe that my neighbor is trying to annoy me to death with his riding lawn mower. But it's beautiful out - it really can be so beautiful here - and I miss my husband - who had to drive quite a bit away for a wedding today - and I'm trying to enjoy this weather before it changes.

It's hard, but I am trying to remember how lucky I am. How lucky I am to have my wonderful husband and kids here with me.

Until next time...

It's been forever!

Well, hello there, sweet blog. I've missed you. Not just no time, but also the fact that I've been feeling horrible lately has been keeping me from here. And I still have the whole Twi-thing and how it relates to NJ thing to go over! Are you dying from the suspense? No? Yea, that's what I thought.

I won't get into that today, though. I really do feel awful. I finally figured it out yesterday. You know how hard going to county fairs/festivals is? What I mean by that is how hard it is to walk around, eat greasy food, be hot, be in close contact with tons of people, when all you want to do is lie down in a bed somewhere and regain your equilibrium after that last ride. Cause the last ride was a doozy - I'm thinking the spinning tea-cups - and you still can't quite walk straight and you have to catch yourself from falling every once in a while, and your stomach still isn't settled and you kind of feel like throwing up, but realize you probably won't. That's how I feel. Constantly. Like every minute of the day. And have so for a few weeks.

I was able to rest a lot this past weekend (and read The Bronze Horseman by Paullina Simons - fucking hot, is all I have to say), much to the dismay of my husband. His parents were here and I excused myself to our bedroom and was horizontal for almost two days. It was heavenly. But I'm not fixed. I'm not as weak as I was when I started, but not fixed. And that scares the crap out of me. I've got a lot of stuff going on right now - getting my daughter ready for Kindergarden, getting myself ready to teach this night class, going to the grocery store, getting the car fixed, driving my son to speech therapy, getting my daughter's outfits and equipment for dance and soccer. I do all this with very little energy and with a whole lot of dizziness.

I have an appointment with an ear, nose and throat doctor on Friday but am not optimistic. Big sigh. Also, I desperately want to finish this romance short story I'm writing to submit it in the end of September to a one-shot fan fiction contest. I'd love to do that. But, well, there's no time. And I feel absolutely horrible.

Good news is that I think I'll get a massage tomorrow and that my sister comes this weekend, so maybe I'll have some time. Maybe the doctor will tell me something good on Friday. What to do, besides taking Sudafed, which doesn't help and just makes my heart race.

Alrighty then. Just wanted to say hi. And I miss you. And Phebe. A lot. If it helps, I think about her all the time. All the time.

I should write a post about my in-laws some time and how they drive me absolutely insane, but won't. Instead, I'll do them like they do us and just forget about them. Ignore it and move on. Normally, with family members, I wouldn't do that, but quid pro quo, you know? My house is really really clean now, though. So that's something.

Until later...

RL Is Stranger Than Fiction, Part One

Pastor Mott's diary entries (see the last post) have gotten me thinking. I've had all kinds of ideas about Phebe's life swirling around in my head these last few months. Mostly they resemble romance novel scenarios. Set in Colonial times. So, you know, not really very realistic. And accidentally stumbling on the Baptist Church records (on-line, no less), finding her name and not only that, but something pretty major concerning her life and the life of her family, is kind of stunning to me. It's not something I could've come up with, really. And this made me realize, that, really, I have no imagination about this kind of thing. I'm better at researching and reading and facts. Left-brained things. I would never have guessed her to be so strong, so dramatic. But it happened.

Then I got to thinking about how this whole lack of imagination thing extends not just to how I imagine historical figures, but how I have very little imagination when trying to predict the behavior of people around me right now. My husband, yes, but he's very predictable. My kids, too. My mom and sister, too. Wow, that's quite a few, you might say, but really, that's it.

And even then, they surprise me fairly regularly. Particularly some of the things my husband says. He's very funny sometimes. Great one-liners. Some friends were talking about the glamour birthday party that their 4 year old daughter was invited to. She's a shy girl, and these kinds of parties involve, usually, dressing up, getting hair and makeup done, nails done, etc. The most cringe-worthy part (the whole thing is pretty cringe-worthy to me, but what the hell do I know) is at the end of the party, when the girls have to walk on the runway or the red carpet and show off their beauty (I guess?). So the shy girls have trouble at this point, usually. And that's what I don't like. Anyway, my husband's response to this was, and I quote verbatim, "Well, the best part must've been at the very end when they went off to do a few lines and then throw up." See? Funny. Out of nowhere.

OK, but his behavior and the behavior of the other members of my close family is very predictable. Well, this is interesting, because I'm kind of splitting hairs. They may be predictable, but the exact way they do things is always surprising. That's what I can't ever imagine. For instance, I predicted that my mother and I would have difficulty working together to decorate my daughter's room. This was right after we moved down to Middletown. So, we went to Kohl's with the kids, which is never fun, and walked around looking at comforters. She said, "What about this one?" And I replied, "Well, I'm not too big on that graphic print. It's primary colors and I don't know about that. Kind of bold." To which she replied, "Well, that's rich, coming from someone who dresses their daughter in polyester Princess nightgowns." See? Out of nowhere. I had no response. I don't know, maybe I deserved it. I did call her casual suggestion for a comforter gaudy. Well, not really, but she interpreted bold as gaudy.

This is why I don't think I could write fiction. Or why I'm in awe of anyone who does. True life, or real life as it's commonly called on the interwebs, is always way more weird and unexpected than anything I could ever come up with in my imagination. Oh, and I have tons of examples. So this'll be a two-parter.

My brother and father, also for example. Let's start with my brother. Every single time, lately, that I hear anything about him, it's that he's going on another vacation to some sunny, beautiful place. They already live in a beach town in Florida, and have tons of boats, and basically do things on the weekends that are very vacation like, but again, what the hell do I know. They also have financial problems. Well, that's a whole big thing which I will probably never write about due to potential legal actions in the future (you really don't want to know). Anyway, they complain about financial problems constantly. Well, then, you'd think, and rightly so, maybe cut down on the vacations? But I said that to him once and he basically freaked out, went on a bender which precipitated his wife "leaving" him, but that was only for a day or so and then, basically, after a few more days, things went back to normal. So that didn't work. And then still, when I talk to my mom and get the update on them, I find out, nearly every single time, that they are planning, yet again, to go to the Keys, or the British Virgin Isles, or some other fantastic place. And every single time, I'm surprised and then angry. Maybe I should start predicting that he'll go on vacation every month. Then I won't be surprised and maybe not so angry.

Now that I realize it, I predicted that Phebe and her husband probably did not have a great marriage. They're not buried together, and he was, by all accounts a bastard. But the exact way it played out is not something I could've imagined. And I still don't know what happened in the last forty years of their life together. I'm dying to know, actually.

Let's get back to my family. Last example today, I think. So my father came out to visit us, for the first time in my new house, a few months ago. I could've predicted that he wouldn't bring anything for his grandkids, even though it was right after his grandson's second birthday, which he in no way acknowledged. So I expected nothing. And what happened? Something even more awesome than nothing. Oh, before I tell you what he brought, I should tell you that he's seventy-two and completely demented at this point due to alcoholism. It's actually pretty amazing that he came to visit me alone at all. How he got around New York City at all is pretty amazing. But then, they have taxi drivers and Penn Station has policemen and information booths to help. So he managed to get here, via NJ Transit, from Penn Station after spending a few days in the city. He stayed exactly 19 hours. For twelve of those hours, he was asleep. So about 3 hours Friday evening and then 4 hours Saturday morning he actually spent with us, before he went back to the city. As expected.

What he brought was unexpected. I'm in the kitchen, doing something, and he's in the living room/playroom with the kids. He has his bag with him and makes a big production about having a gift for them. "Mary, your Granddaddy brought you something! Now, come on over here. Are you ready?" Oh, and he's from Mississippi and lately has really really lapsed into the exaggerated accent ALL the time. Part of the reason people help him, I guess. So, what does he give her? An apple. The free apple he got from the breakfast bar at his hotel in New York. And, God bless her, she goes, "Oh, wow, I love apples!" and she walks into the kitchen to show me. No sarcasm yet for her. She doesn't know what that means. But me? Well, I'm not sarcastic either to him about it, because at that point, I was pretty speechless. And then for my two year old? An orange! Also from the free breakfast bar! He thought it was a ball. Which made him happy too.

So, you see? I couldn't have come up with that had I tried. Alright, more tomorrow. All about my adventures in on-line Twilight-land. You're scared, aren't you? It's fine. It'll be fine. And funny. And weird. And completely unpredictable. For that I hadn't had years and years of observation to be able to comfortably predict anything. It's all new to me, how the interwebs work. Late to the party there.

More tomorrow...

Phebe Taylor Kicks Some Baptist Pastor A in 1751 and I Flove It.

Turns out Phebe wasn't invisible. In fact, she may have been crazy and was most certainly angry and, the best part, the reason I know this after all, she fell out with the church!!!

OK, I'll quote. These are from the diary of the pastor of the Baptist Church here in Middletown. I thought they'd be Anglicans, but I was wrong, thankfully. Cause this pastor was effin wordy! This passage I'll quote is preceded by a bit about Phebe's husband John feuding with his brother Edward. Apparently, Edward called Phebe a name - crossed out due to it being an indecent term (for reals) and it was really Edward being mad about some decision of their father's in favor of John. But she totally is, though, Edward said. He could prove it. Whatever it was. I'm dying to know this indecent term.

Anyway, here's the bit about Phebe specifically, (in the same year as that feud between John and Edward). PS I love that it's Edward all over the place here (Twilight is everywhere). Apparently, Edward ended up being a good guy (and by that I mean Patriot) and John was the Loyalist "shylock" according to the descendent that wrote their family history up. Different book, though.

Alright, quoting about Phebe: "June 1751 a Groundles Report Being Spred that John taylor Was Grate With Sarah thorne By Which Phebe taylor Was Stured Up to a Sperit of Jelosey: And did Much Abufe her hufband: for which he Came and Made Complant to Me of her: I Went to See her and told her the Sin She Was Gilty of But She Would Not hear I Used Indiuers (?) With her Several times But to No Purpofe. John thorn allfo Complained Unto Me: that Phebe Strove to Mak difrance Betwen: he and his Wife By Infifting her hufband and his Wife Ware Actually Guilty of the Charge Which Complaint I Laid Before Phebe With the Several Agrivating Sins She Was Gilty of In So doing: She Stil Continued obStinate and Juftified her Selfe In all She had done: Upon Which I told her She Should Not Be admited to her Place: With out Publick Acknolidgment: Which She Refented Very Much and told me I Ufed her Very ill And Watched Over her from Evel and Not for Good."

Then in August, when she wasn't there, they suspended her until she could have a hearing.

Then in October 1751: "At a Church Meeting at Middletown Phebe Taylor Gave her Attendance Defiering to Be admitted to her Place Agane in the Church. I being Sik Could Not atend. The Church Redily admited her to her Place again In the Church. With out Examining the Complant laid Againf her By Me in Auguft."

Sounds like he was pissed at that last part. No more about them until the Revolution (1777) when her husband John was dismissed from the church for going against the Free States or something like it. Also, in 1751 she gave birth to her seventh child (fourth child who survived childhood). So my thinking was she was fed up. I don't know. It was terribly exciting.

I love that she stood up to the pastor. He used to love to call people out for public drunkenness and fornication. Lots of those charges in his diary. Mostly drunkenness. It's really a fascinating document.

I may have mentioned in an earlier post that a John Taylor, as recorded in the Second Book of Middletown, in 1736 (Phebe's husband would've been 21, if it's the same person, which I think it was) was threatened by the town with a lawsuit if he didn't take care of the Bastard Child that he had with Mary Robarts.

Drama. I love it. I can't believe there's so much about her even in the few things I've found. Yay! On-line, even. Now, if only I could figure out what that indecent term was. Hmmm, drunkard? Fornicator? Harlot? What else could it be? Witch? That's not really indecent. May never know. It's ok. I should see if it's in the original document, if that's still around.

She stood up to the Pastor, then went around him to get back into the church. And it worked. That wouldn't have happened had she had no support.

Must run. I'm trying to come up with a timeline of known facts (with references). Still lots of gaps. Especially towards the end of her life. One of my main questions concerns how she ended up in that cemetery but her husband didn't. The family plot. I also have no idea where she lived when he was run out of town during the Revolution. Maybe she stayed here. Or maybe she went to New York with John and just wanted to be buried here in Middletown.

I know more today than I did yesterday, thanks to Stillwell's Historical and genealogical miscellany (which contained the records of the Baptist Church of Middletown, linked above). Yay!